


history repeats, repeats, repeats

by peltonea



Category: Longmire (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fix-It, Multi, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22509889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peltonea/pseuds/peltonea
Summary: Branch Connally wakes up, bleeding out on the Rez. Again, and again, and again, and again.(Set after S3 finale, but contains spoilers for whole series.)
Relationships: Branch Connally/Cady Longmire, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Walt Longmire/Victoria "Vic" Moretti, Zachary Heflin/Cady Longmire
Comments: 17
Kudos: 25





	1. 1 - 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic picks up at the very end of the season 3 finale. Literally, the final moments of Barlow and Branch's scene. There will be spoilers through til the season 6 finale.

There’s a sudden noise to Branch’s left, and he turns on instinct, drawing his rifle up. 

He sees the endless blue of the sky and the clay pigeon flying through the air, and then there’s a gunshot, a split-second of agony in the back of his skull, and then he’s falling to the dusty ground, the smell of ash and blood in his nose, dull pain in his shoulder, his stomach, the wind knocked out of his lungs. Something’s pressing uncomfortably into his back. He presses a hand to his stomach: it comes away bloody. Really bloody. That hand is shaking. Not good. 

Dad's gone, nowhere to be seen. From this angle, Branch can't even see the house. He pushes half-numb fingers into the pocket of his jeans, draws out his cellphone, and dials. Only one person can help him now. 

“Ruby?” he croaks. 

“Branch? Is that you?”

“Need help,” he manages, and then his phone falls out of his hands and he can’t quite pick it back up again. Struggles to draw another breath. Presses his numb hands against the holes in his body, trying to keep the blood in.

It'll be fine.

Ruby can trace the call. They'll find him. Or at least Branch hopes so. He presses his hands harder against the holes as he stares upward. The sky is so blue, he can _taste_ it.

He could’ve sworn that Dad only shot once, though.

* * *

Time moves very quickly and very slowly.

David Ridges walks over in all that white paint, but he’s dead and a blink later he’s gone. 

Branch is very cold, even though the blood oozing out of him is very hot.

Walt is there, kneeling over him, and Branch knows Dad is about to go through hell because Walt’s got that steely-eyed look in his eyes, the one that means he’s furious. 

“Keep your eyes open, Branch,” Walt says. 

“It was Dad,” Branch tries to tell him, but his tongue’s numb too and the breath won’t come and the taste of blue is overwhelming, all dusty and metallic in his mouth. He squeezes his eyes shut, for just second, so he can think. 

Branch isn’t on the floor anymore. He’s on something hard and uncomfortable, but there’s shade, too. That’s good. He was getting pretty sick of the sun in his eyes.

Something rigid slides between his teeth, something silver glinting in the sun. He bites down. There’s pain. A lot of pain. He cries out, teeth aching against the bit in his mouth.

They’re moving. Doesn’t hurt any more. Bad sign. 

Voices. 

Sun. White ceiling. Another worried face. 

“Stay with us,” someone says, but he doesn’t. 

* * *

When Branch wakes up, it’s slowly and almost leisurely, to the gentle beeping of hospital equipment. A nurse takes his wrist in one warm hand, smiles prettily at him as she checks something against her watch. Then David Ridges is there, white-painted, and he’s dragging her away, slicing her throat, and there’s red red _red_ and Branch can’t do anything but scream for help and then he blinks awake _again_.

Dad's standing right above him, concern etched in every wrinkle on his face.

“Hey, son,” Dad says, with a small smile. “They said you might be waking up.”

Branch blinks. Remembers why that feels so wrong. The gentle beeping in the room becomes a little less gentle, a little more urgent. 

“I brought you a ginger ale,” Dad continues, picking up a can from the side table. He’s so casual. Like he never shot Branch at all. Like Branch never confronted him over all that shit with Nighthorse and Martha Longmire's death.

“The hell are you doing here?” Branch demands, but between the ache from the bullet wounds and the fuzzy, exhausted feeling that he’s learnt comes with major blood loss and heavy medication, it comes out slurred and maybe a little pathetic: “…you doin’ here…?”

“I heard my son was injured,” Dad replies, and he sets the can down again. “I came to see if you were okay. The Sheriff’s here too. He wants to ask you a few questions.”

Is that why Dad’s here? To coach him? To silence him, ‘cause the first time didn’t take? What’s his game?

“You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,” Dad continues, looking at the other end of the room. “I’d be more than happy to tell him to piss off.”

Branch follows Dad’s gaze. Walt’s there.

Good. That explains a lot. He’s safe as long as Walt is here. 

“I c'n talk,” Branch croaks, and there’s the sound of footsteps as Walt approaches, hat in hand.

“Hey, Branch,” Walt says, softly. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I just want to know if you remember what happened.”

“'s kind of fuzzy,” Branch says, because he can’t just _tell_ Walt what happened, not with Dad right here. And he can’t just tell Dad to leave, ‘cause then he’ll flee and he’ll get away with it. Be vague, he thinks. Vague and uncertain and unthreatening. “I, uh… I was at the house.” 

“The house?” Walt asks, and he’s frowning. 

“Yeah,” Branch says. “We were… I don’t know. We were gonna go riding. Or trap shooting, maybe. Not sure.” 

“‘We’?” Walt asks. 

“Me ’n Dad,” Branch says, and he waves a too-heavy hand to gesture vaguely at Dad. Dad looks confused. He’s good at lying, though. Prob’ly oughta win an Oscar or two.

Walt glances up at Dad, then at the IV stand next to the bed, then his dark gaze lands on Branch again. 

“Right,” Walt says. “I, uh… I think I’ll come by a little later. When your head’s a little clearer.”

“Don’t push him,” Dad snaps. "He needs his rest."

“’s fine,” Branch mutters, and he lets his eyes slip closed again, because they're feeling awful heavy too.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” Walt says. “Get well soon, Branch. See you, Barlow.”

“Mm.” Branch lifts his hand, doesn’t have the energy for an actual wave. The door closes, and Dad stays where he is, stroking Branch’s hand in a reassuring way he hasn’t done since Branch was a little boy. 

He doesn’t mean to, but he falls asleep. And when Branch opens his eyes again, Dad is gone and David Ridges is standing over him, knife in hand. 

There’s no time to think. He blocks the downward stab, a panicked yell ringing in his ears, grabs Ridges’ wrist with clumsy fingers, starts trying to bend it back. 

“Drop the knife!” Branch demands, and Ridges’ only response is to scream in his face, struggling to force the blade down. 

Branch isn’t strong enough to stop him, not right now. Still, he manages to jam Ridges’ arm against the railing on the hospital bed, buying just enough time to hit the nurse call button.

How’d he even get in here? He’s _dead_. They’re in a goddamn _hospital_. 

Branch twists his arm, and something under Branch’s fingers, inside Ridges’ white-painted skin, pops out of place with a sickening noise. 

The scream that rings through the air isn’t Ridges, though. 

When Branch looks back, it’s Cady by his bedside, her forearm bent all wrong underneath Branch's hands. And that’s when the door opens, accompanied by a shout.

“The hell is going on in here?!”

* * *

  
“It wasn’t her,” Branch explains, and his voice sounds weak to his own ears. “It was Ridges.” He pauses. “Walt, you know I’d never hurt Cady—”

“She’s got a broken wrist that says otherwise,” Walt says. He’s not angry any more. Instead, there’s a tired kind of resignation in his voice. That's almost worse.

There’s something wrong about this whole situation. It’s… it’s too familiar. Too much like what happened before. Branch concentrates on holding the plastic cup in his hands steady.

“It wasn’t her,” Branch insists, even as he can feel the familiar pangs of doubt. “It was Ridges and he had a knife and he was going to kill me.”

“Ridges is dead,” Walt says. 

“I thought so too. I saw the body. But…” Branch shakes his head, trails off. It had to have been some kind of elaborate trick, right? Right? Some kind of body double or... or... God. He doesn't know. He's hallucinated like this before, back when Ridges shot him on the Rez. Maybe he was hallucinating just now, too. Damn it. He'd sworn that he'd never hurt Cady again. And yet... 

Walt looks surprised, and he leans in, hands clasped, as he always does when witnesses say something interesting. 

“You saw the body?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“The back of your Bronco,” Branch replies. Walt had shown him the corpse, then they’d gone to the hospital. “We took it to the morgue. I guess it’s still there.”

Walt is quiet for a long moment. He wets his lips with his tongue briefly, then cocks his head. 

“You remember any more about how you got shot?”

Branch takes a sip of stale-tasting water. 

“I went to the house,” he says. “Dad and I, we did a little trap shooting, and I confronted him about some financial records I found. Next thing I know, I’m bleeding out on the ground. I know I should’ve come to you first, but…” Branch shrugs. He immediately regrets it. “…he’s my dad. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

Walt looks at Branch, and he can see the cogs turning in Walt’s head. He knows what’s going to come next.

“Why would your father kill you over financial records?”

“Because they prove that he hired David Ridges from Nighthorse to kill your wife.” 

Walt is silent for a long moment. A very long moment that stretches into a very long minute.

“Branch,” he says. “You weren’t at your father’s house. I sent you to the rez. I needed you to collect samples of Ridges’ funeral ashes.”

“That was nearly a year ago,” Branch replies, and he forces himself up, ignoring the pain in his gut and his shoulder. The meds take the edge off, but it’s not _enough_. “The ashes, they were a match." Walt's still looking at him blankly, so Branch continues. "You didn’t believe that he was still alive. So I had to investigate on my own, and— and it turns out Ridges was Nighthorse’s enforcer, and you fired me and then Ridges died…” 

Branch shakes his head, stares at Walt helplessly. The heart monitor is beeping faster.

“…You don’t remember any of that?”

Walt shakes his head: “I don’t.”

"I'm not crazy," Branch insists, and his voice cracks a little. The beeping is much more insistent now.

"I don't think you are," Walt says, very softly. "But I _do_ think you got a lot of peyote in your system."

It's not the peyote. It was real. This _can't_ be happening all over again.

Walt stands, puts his hat on as he strides to the door.

"Try to get some rest," he says. "I'll see you again soon."

And then Walt is gone, the door swinging shut behind him.


	2. 1 - 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! I’m back! My laptop pretty much died, so all of my writing projects got put on hold. I’m aiming to update this at least once a month (hopefully more often). Be aware, this is going to be massively self-indulgent.

  
Branch might not be one of those fancy-ass scientists or theologians, but he knows how the world works. Time goes forward. Always. There’s no way he could possibly be back here, at the start of the worst year of his life. No way at all. And yet… everything is disconcertingly familiar. 

Branch takes another sip of stale-tasting water. He hasn’t touched the ginger ale Dad brought. Can’t _quite_ trust it. 

Dad was the one that shot him, wasn’t he? Branch had felt it, a sharp pain in the back of his head before he hit the ground with a hole in his shoulder and his stomach. He felt it. He remembers the rage and the nausea when he read the financial documents from Nighthorse. Remembers the cold single-mindedness that drove him to hunt down Ridges. The disappointment he’d had in himself after screwing everything up so bad with Cady. The fear and the frustration and the fury that had dogged nearly every waking moment of the last twelve months. 

Was that real? It had to be, right? The peyote couldn’t make him hallucinate an entire goddamn year. Or could it?

Branch pushes the cup back onto the side table with a trembling hand, his bad shoulder protesting even through the haze of whatever painkillers they’ve got him hooked up to. This is real. He’s sure of it. 

Branch closes his eyes. The bright lights and the painkillers are making it hard to think. The memories and the present… they can’t both be real. 

Did the peyote somehow show him the future? Was it all a crazy dying dream? An extremely vivid hallucination? Peyote is what Indians use in those sweat lodges, right? Maybe the things he remembers are some kind of spiritual warning, some kind of sign of things to come

Branch doesn’t get a whole lot of time to think about that, because someone comes in, closing the door quietly behind them. He cracks his eyes open. Moretti’s standing near the door, a grim look on her face, a duffel bag thrown over her shoulder. He remembers this. Driving out to the rez with her. Trying and failing to ID someone who isn’t Ridges. 

“Hey, Branch,” she says, softly. “How’re you feeling?” 

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, pushing himself up to a sitting position. His shoulder and his stomach don’t like that a whole lot. He’s dizzy. 

“Cady asked me to bring you some clothes,” Moretti says, and she puts the duffel on the side table, out of arms’ reach. “She was worried you’d get cold in here.”

“That was nice.”

“Yeah, yeah it was,” Moretti says, brightly. “It was really nice, considering you broke her wrist.”

He did. He hurt Cady. Hadn’t meant to, but he did. 

“It wasn’t her,” Branch mutters.

Moretti makes a disgusted noise. 

“Walt said you’d say that.”

Branch ignores her, starts slowly levering himself out of bed. His limbs don’t want to work right, and the bed’s too high. Gotta push through. Walt’s probably waiting at the rez by now. Now's as good a time as any to test his theory. Still 'remembers' tonight. Or at least, he _thinks_ he does. The important bits, anyway. Ridges wasn't there, but Poteet was, that Matthias guy spouting bullshit about jurisdiction. If it's all the same...

“The hell are you doing?!” Moretti snaps. “Get back in bed.” 

Branch pauses, one foot on the floor.

“I have to get dressed,” he says. 

“No, you have to rest,” Moretti says. “You can get dressed in the morning. Jesus, Branch, you look like you’re about to pass out.”

“Can’t leave dressed in this,” Branch argues. It’s gonna be cold, and the gown barely fastens at the back. They didn’t even give him pants. Come on. Even on a warm September evening, he’ll be literally freezing his balls off like this. The rez is windy, less sheltered than Durant. 

“Leave? Leave where?” Moretti demands. “Branch, you just got shot. Twice. You nearly died. The only place you need to be is here. In hospital. Resting.”

“We’re not going to the rez?”

“Why would we be going to the rez?” Moretti exclaims. “Walt and Ferg already went up there earlier. They’re working on the ashes. We’re gonna find who shot you, so just—“ she scowls, shakes her head, gestures in irritation ”—just do your damn job and rest up.”

“Oh.”

Maybe he didn’t see the future after all. Maybe it was just a hallucination. 

“Bed, now,” Moretti snaps, in the sharp tone that allows no argument. Branch slowly pulls himself back onto the cheap-feeling mattress. “Walt’s gonna come by in the morning. Ruby and Ferg are gonna try to stop by, too.”

There’s not much to say after that. They’re not exactly friends.

* * *

It takes several days for the doctors to discharge him. They’re reluctant, but they do it. They forbid him to return to work immediately. Of course, Branch doesn’t plan to listen to that— he’s got to track down Ridges, figure out if all that stuff with Dad and Nighthorse was real (it probably wasn’t, but he needs to know), do literally anything but sit in a blank white room with nothing to do but wait and think about the dream-memories and what they could mean. They’d seemed so real, after all. 

The most important thing, by far, is to apologise to Cady. Walt interviewed him again. Ferg brought a get-well card and a cupcake from his mom. Dad and Ruby visited the hospital a couple times (the latter fussing like his mom used to), and even Uncle Lucian managed to stop by for a couple hours. But Cady hadn’t showed again. Maybe she’s mad. She’s got every right to be, but it seems unfair. He really hadn’t meant it. Hadn’t known it was her. 

Dad drives Branch home, tries to insist that he stays at the family home for a few days, but Branch stands his ground. He’s a grown man, he knows what he needs. 

Anyway, he doesn’t want to be around Dad right now. Can’t fight that weird feeling, like he can’t be trusted, even though Branch knows that the dream can’t have been real. Dad would never hurt him. Yell and scream and screw with Branch’s finances? Sure. But lay a finger or a bullet on him? No. 

Cady doesn’t answer her cellphone. She doesn’t answer her home phone either. Branch probably should just take that as a hint. Send a text, give her more time. He can’t. 

Branch stops by the florist on the way to Cady’s place, and she gives him a nice something made up of roses and tulips and lilies, with a couple daisies thrown in when he explains how his girl got hurt because of him. 

It takes Cady a while to answer the door, but when she does, she doesn’t open the screen. Her mouth is pressed into a thin line and there’s an ugly white cast over her hand and forearm. 

“I, uh… I came to apologise,” Branch says. 

“Okay,” Cady says, and her voice sounds a little weak. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, you know that right?”

Cady nods, and she doesn’t make eye contact. 

“Yeah.”

“I brought you some flowers,” Branch adds. 

“Thank you,” Cady says, and she clears her throat. “You can leave them on the doorstep, and I’ll put them in a vase.”

Shit. This isn’t going well. Branch tries again.

“I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again. I promise.”

Cady nods. It’s kind of hard to see through the screen, but her eyes look wet.

“I know,” she says. She clears her throat. “Take care of yourself, Branch. I hope you heal soon.”

“Yeah,” he answers, because he can’t really say anything else. “You too.”

Cady smiles a slightly damp smile and closes the door, so Branch carefully places the flowers on the doorstep. He hesitates, then heads back to the car. Waits for a minute. Cady doesn’t open the door. Probably won’t until he’s gone.

Shit. He pulls out, heads back home with a sour taste in his mouth and a heavy heart. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like that. He knows Cady. She’s the strongest, stubbornest woman he’s ever met. And the most beautiful and most intelligent and caring and witty and wonderful, and he blew it because of some coward Indian with a peyote-laced feather. 

She’ll come around eventually. She has to. But in the meantime… 

If David Ridges _is_ out there somewhere, like the peyote suggests, then Branch Connally is going to kill him. 


	3. 1 - 3

Branch doesn’t take the pain medication he’s given by the doctors. He doesn’t take the paid time off he’s entitled to, either. Can’t stand sitting in the house, knowing what he did. Knowing that Cady isn’t won’t look him in the eye any more. Knowing that Ridges is still out there. 

Walt tries to dissuade him, of course, but Branch insists. And within four days, he’s back at the station— just in time to help with the paperwork from the Russian girl case. Death of Polina, a minor, what amounts to child trafficking, and making sure that the other girl, Sofia, gets the right help from social services… it’s a _lot_ of paperwork. 

Branch feels like _shit_ , his shoulder and stomach always aching, his breath always short, but as long as he takes the stairs one at a time and stays sitting as much as possible, he doesn’t feel too bad. Doesn’t feel too light-headed or in pain. He’s essentially on Ferg duty: running numberplates and Googling shit for the Walt and the other deputies. Which is fine, ‘cause it gives Branch a chance to sneak into Walt’s office one afternoon when he’s out at the Red Pony and steal the case file for Ridges’ attack on Branch. 

It’s not that he’s planning to _do_ anything, but he _does_ need to gather information on Ridges. The file is depressingly sparse— there’s a very brief description of Branch’s injuries, followed by “Deputy Connally does not remember who shot him”. The peyote-laced feather the doctors pulled out of him has been cleaned and filed into evidence in a small zip-loc. Branch takes that, too. 

The days flow slowly, like molasses, into weeks. Branch sticks to Ferg duty, which mostly consists of the aforementioned boring shit and filing reports made by concerned citizens— the usual rural stuff like noise complaints and signposts getting stolen. Ferg sticks to Red Pony duty, since Henry’s not getting out of jail any time soon. Though with Cady on his case, that’s sure to change. 

Speaking of Cady, Branch doesn’t see her. Well— that’s a lie. He spots her _one_ time at a convenience store one time, buying coffee filters and milk, but she looks so afraid when she spots him that he doesn’t dare approach. Just stands, silently, staring at a chiller full of root beer until she hurries away. 

Walt winds up judging some Indian contest the same day a doctor is found murdered in a barn. Branch does some boring legwork. He calls parents of the dead guy— Mallory. There’s a weird sense of dèjá vu when he speaks to the mom, but he shrugs it off. All next-of-kin notification calls are the same. Then he ponders the David Ridges problem. Gets a golden opportunity to investigate, too.

Things get _kinda_ weird when he tells Walt to let him go to the Rez clinic. More dèjá vu. But it doesn’t get _really_ weird until he meets the nurse, grills him about Mallory and Ridges. 

The nurse there is overjoyed to see him, scoops Branch into a warm hug, and there’s something about the way he speaks that’s just… it’s too much. Branch doesn’t remember that part of his dream all that clearly, but the nurse almost sounds like he’s an Oscar-winning actor reading from a script. Even though Branch doesn’t recall the exact words, there are certain things that he does remember. The stack of disposable gowns the nurse tosses onto a table, which topple, slowly, after a moment. That pointer finger, the worried “don’t rush it, though, boss”. The shock and confusion when Branch breaks the news of Mallory’s demise. 

Branch already _knows_ what the nurse is going to say before he says it. The gist of it, anyway: Branch was the first person whose life he’d saved. Hadn’t said anything too weird when he got in, had been all limp and dying-y. Didn’t see David around that time, last sighting had been a month ago. 

Branch tells the guy to call him if he sees David Ridges again, and just before he reaches the door: 

“Hey! Uh— don’t you want the name of the patient that was yelling at Dr Mallory?” 

The feeling of dèjá vu strikes Branch again, so strongly that this time he almost feels like he’s going to be sick. He stares at the nurse for a second too long, and the nurse steps forward, clearly worried, pushing the note into his hand.

“You all right, man? Maybe you need to rest…”

“I, uh… I’m fine,” Branch mutters, and he can’t get out of there fast enough. Hops in his cruiser and peels away as fast as he can. Blasts the radio to blast the dèjá vu right out of his head. Shania Twain, full volume. 

Branch tries to forget the dream, and focus on his job instead.

It looks like a pretty open and shut case, in Branch’s opinion. A patient’s dad killed the doctor in a fit of rage for some bullshit reason. He vaguely remembers dreaming it was someone else, but he can’t recall exactly who and it doesn’t matter anyway. Angry Dad did it. But Walt’s convinced there’s more than that and Branch goes home when it’s dark out. Doesn’t go directly home, though.

No, he makes a stop at the Red Pony first. Figures he deserves a beer after the month he’s had. No more, though, gotta drive safe. A small but insistent part of him hopes that Cady might be there, and maybe she’ll look at him with something _other_ than fear in her eyes. It's a stupid thought, but it's running through his mind regardless when he pulls up outside the bar.

Turns out, Branch _is_ right about Cady being there. She’s there, at the bar, with that cast on her arm, standing with some guy with a suit and a shitty haircut and Branch _knows_ him— Cameron Maddox. He’s never met the guy, but he’s sure that’s the name.

Might be a good time to leave, Branch thinks, and _that’s_ when Cady looks up, spots Branch and the smile falls from her face for just a moment before she forces it back up. Still, she walks on over to him with the palest face and the widest eyes and the tightest smile Branch has ever seen before. Trying to look like nothing’s wrong. Just like she always does when she’s talking to someone she loves. 

That’s good. She still loves him in some way.

Cady gives Branch a tentative hug, explains that she’s Henry’s lawyer now, and they’re holding some kind of party for Henry. Cameron thought it was a great idea. 

“Cameron?” Branch asks. 

“Cameron Maddox,” Cady replies, and Branch’s stomach sinks. Weird coincidence, he thinks. She must’ve mentioned his name before. “Old law school friend. Hey— why don’t you join us for a drink?”

“Just one,” Branch agrees, mostly because he can’t stand the thought of some other guy looking at her the way he does.

The evening is quiet, Cady’s quiet, her stupid law school friend isn’t. Probably her new boyfriend or something, now that Branch isn't in the picutre. He can't stand that thought. Cady is the only girl for him, and she shouldn't be with some stupid guy in a suit.

Still. She’s talking to Branch, really _trying_ to let him in, so he does his best to listen and let her tell him all about whatever it is she’s doing to help Henry. Bail hearing is tomorrow, New Boyfriend is helping out, and maybe there's still a chance Branch can win her back.

At nine, there’s some kind of commotion outside and it turns out that Walt got assaulted by and then arrested some guy and the pizza he bought for the affidavit party got ruined. In a mildly tipsy attempt to rebuild one _particular_ bridge, Branch pulls out his wallet and ends up spending nearly two hundred dollars on pizza for Cady’s party. Which is good, because this time she smiles when she thanks him, and gives him another hug. Both of them feel _real_ this time.

Next morning, Angry Dad is in the station cell and Branch receives a bunch of files from Detroit PD. Doctor’s dead brother died the same way he did. Just like in Branch’s dream. No connection to Angry Dad.

Obvious suspect is the stepmom, then. Branch is pretty sure one of _his_ many stepmoms tried the same thing, once upon a time, and failed. He tells Walt, then does all the hard work: verifies Sylvia’s whereabouts at the time of the murder, some conference, and (with little success) to follow that up with alibis. It’s hard, mostly because it was a whole-ass year ago. Oren’s finances line up with Branch’s suspicions, but something feels off. 

The dream wasn’t real, Branch reminds himself, and he goes to the Red Pony to cheer up Cady that evening instead: she sent a two-word text at noon. _We won_. Despite that, when Branch arrives, she's sitting at a corner table looking miserable in her fine court clothes. Branch is a gentleman, and therefore takes the first round (planning to take care of the second and third rounds too, if Cady allows it). 

“Let’s celebrate your big victory,” he says, placing one Rainier bottle in front of Cady. Despite her good work, she looks distraught. 

“Not much to celebrate,” she says, with a sad laugh. “Henry’s still in jail. Judge set the bail at _one million_ dollars.”

About the same as Branch’s house. Jesus. Kind of makes sense, though, Henry _did_ get arrested for _murder_.

“Even with the bail bond, and Dad’s retirement, and the collection jar we passed around, we’re short fifty grand,” she says. 

Just like the dream, Branch thinks. And just like the dream, he reaches for his checkbook and starts solving the problem in the best way he knows how. He's worked in law enforcement long enough to understand the deal with bail bonds. About a hundred thousand ought to do it. It’s not like it’s _his_ money, anyway. 

“What are you doing?” Cady asks, sharply. 

“Writing you a check for a hundred thousand dollars,” Branch replies, and he signs with a flourish, ripping the check free, sliding it across the smooth, varnished wood to her. 

“No,” Cady insists. “No, _no_ — Branch, I will _not_ let you spend your money on this. No, I’ll find some other way to raise the cash.”

“Look,” Branch insists. “It’s fine. Your boyfriend helped you out with the courtroom stuff, and now I’m helping with the after-courtroom stuff. I _want_ to help you.”

“My boyfriend?” Cady frowns. “What, are you talking about Cam?”

“Yeah.”

Cady laughs. It’s a nervous kind of laugh.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she says. “C'mon. You know me better than that. Didn’t I mention? Cam’s gay. No interest in me _whatsoever_. He was just helping me as a friend. In a professional kind of friend way.”

Okay, that’s a _little_ better, Branch decides. Still doesn’t like it, though. It’s the principle of the thing. Cady’s _his_ girl. Even if she doesn't like him all that much right now (and he can't exactly blame her).

“Well, still doesn’t change the fact I _want_ to help you,” he says. “You can’t bake sale your way out of this one.”

Cady is very quiet for a moment. She looks at Branch, then the check. Her mouth goes taut. 

“Thank you, Branch,” she says. “Henry will really appreciate it.”

“I’m not doing this for Henry,” Branch replies. And then: “I’m sorry about your arm. Did your insurance—?”

“The insurance is fine,” Cady replies, and she looks sad again. Shit. She reaches forward with her good arm, touches his hand. “You don’t have to do this, to make it up to me or anything. I told you it was okay, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Branch confirms. “Still feel bad, though. Figured I gotta scrape together some good karma after that, you know?”

Cady doesn’t look all that convinced, so he continues. 

“Besides, it’s not really my money.”

This time, Cady’s laugh is genuine. 

“I’m sure your dad will be thrilled when he finds out,” she snorts, and she looks so pretty in that moment, Branch could kiss her. Won’t, though. She needs more time. He screwed up pretty bad. 

“He’ll get it back,” Branch says. “Unless Henry plans to run.” 

That starts Cady laughing again, and this time they laugh all through the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was longer than I intended, Truthfully, I'm not really a fan of this style of writing, keeping so close to canon. Still, it's a necessary evil for this first loop, at least.


	4. 1 - 4

  
Paperwork. So much paperwork. Domestic dispute? Paperwork. Speeding ticket? Paperwork. Feels like Branch is drowning in the stuff these days. He’s still partially on Ferg duty. Every day at the station feels like a century, and it’s frustrating because he can’t get any leads on David Ridges while Walt is there, convinced that Branch hallucinated the whole thing. 

Nevertheless, Branch does get a little work done on that front. He orders some security cameras off Amazon and Googles some half-remembered phrases, a partially-formed idea about false ashes already stuck in his head. If he can prove Ridges is alive, Walt will be forced to act, and maybe Branch can start feeling safe again. The cameras are to ensure he’ll have a record of anybody (such as a certain dead Indian) targeting his home.

Branch doesn’t mention it to Dad when he goes over for coffee. He doesn’t mention a whole lot of anything, really. Just some small talk about how he's healing up, how's work. They don’t _do_ much, either. Aren’t gonna go riding or shooting or whatever until the doctors okay it, so Branch just helps Dad clean and maintain his guns and maybe they’ll watch one of dad’s favourite movies if he’s feeling real sentimental. He doesn’t mention the bail money, either, and if Dad knows about it he doesn’t say shit. Branch can't shake the bad feeling his dream gave him, that Dad's up to something awful, so he always goes home early. 

Branch recieves and installs the cameras, has ten or so left over after. He says hello to Henry at the Red Pony, is gracious enough not to mention his part in Henry’s release— Cady probably told him, anyway. He reads a couple sci-fi books he got at the library. They’re not very good. He runs some tests on dead rabbits and his own hair and blood, and it feels almost like he’s done this before when he cuts his forearm open, lets the hot blood drip down his elbow. The smell of the ashes when he scoops them into a zip-loc is exactly the same as in his dream. 

When Branch heads to the hospital the next morning, Dr Weston agrees to test the ashes, see if they match the ‘suspect’ (really Branch’s own hair, shorn from his head), and there’s that feeling of dèjá vu again as they speak. After, Branch heads home, gets ready for work, and heads on in. 

“Well,” says Ruby as he walks in. “Sheriff’s been wondering where you are.” 

Branch glances over at her, angrily pouting at her papers, and flashes her a winning smile nonetheless. 

“Well, he can stop wondering,” Branch says, the words falling automatically from his lips. “I’m here.” 

He barely takes a half-step into the office, crowded with filthy young adults (Hikers? Campers? They look familiar.) when the phone rings and the feeling of dèjá vu returns even stronger than ever. Jesus. 

It wasn’t real, Branch reminds himself. All just a coincidence. 

“What’s with the slumber party?” he asks. 

“Long story,” is Ruby’s reply, and she answers the phone. Branch has a horrible feeling he knows what it’s about already.

Henry Standing Bear, violating his parole. 

“Has he gone outside his parole perimeter?” Ruby asks. A pause. “And who’s the parolee?” 

Branch frowns, lets himself into the reception area. 

“Henry Standing Bear?” Ruby asks, looking awful worried. Branch feels sick. 

Nevertheless, he swallows the nausea down.

“If there’s a problem with Henry, I can go check on him,” Branch offers. Maybe… maybe he can get some answers from the guy. Some confirmation that the peyote was just a really vivid trip, or something. 

Ruby looks at him, just like she did in the dream, and she relays his response to the operator. 

“We can send a deputy over right away.”

Twenty minutes later, Branch spots Henry on the roadside a couple miles from the Red Pony. He slows to a walking pace, rolls down the window. 

“Nice a ride?”

“No,” comes Henry’s curt response. “Just out for a stroll.”

“Not supposed to be taking strolls, Henry. People put up money to post your bail, wouldn’t be good to jeopardise that.”

“Do not worry,” Henry replies, in that annoying calm way he does. Like the whole world except for him is crazy. “When the red light goes off, I step back.”

“Do you realise that every time that light goes off, alarms right and the monitoring company calls our office, thinking you’re skipping bail?”

Looks like Henry did not, in fact realise that, because he stops and sighs and Branch pops the lock on the passenger door. 

“Get in,” he says. Henry looks at Branch with too-familiar frustration, but he obeys and Branch peels away. 

Now’s about the time Branch would expect to hear some Indian history gripes, and Henry delivers. Complains about land, about being confined to a one-mile patch of Rez land. 

“At least you can walk a mile without getting dizzy and needing to sit down,” Branch says, pointedly. He used to run every morning, hit his own personal gym on the daily. Now, though, five minutes with a five-pound dumbbell is enough to make him woozy, and the single flight of stairs to the Sheriff’s Office might as well be sixty.

Henry seems to get Branch’s point, though. Other people (Branch being a prime example) have it way worse than Henry. He has the decency to pause, look ashamed. 

“Yes,” Henry says. “I forgot I am not the only one to have had a bad month. How are you?”

“Good as can be expected, after getting shot by a time-travelling warrior.”

“Are you making fun of me?” Henry asks, with a withering glare.

“I’m dead serious,” Branch says. A pause. “Henry, I need to know more about peyote.”

“Ask away,” Henry replies, sounding weary.

“Can it really make you time travel?”

Henry is silent for a moment. 

“I will not dignify that with a response,” he says. “Do you have an actual question?”

A different tactic, then. 

“Where’d people get it around here?”

Henry glances at him. 

“Are you planning to go back in time to interrogate your attacker?” 

Branch simply looks at him. He knows the sunglasses make him look extra stern. Henry sighs.

“Branch, peyote does not help with pain.”

“I’m not asking for me, it’s for a case,” Branch says, which is technically true. His case is still a case, even if the files are sitting in his living room and not Walt’s office.

Henry is reluctant, even when Branch explains that he just needs a couple names, just a couple users. He doesn’t give a shit about the licensed dealers. The answer is still no, though, so Branch pushes a little further, even though something in his gut tells him it’s a bad idea. 

“Henry, you owe me.”

“I ow you?” Henry sounds surprised. Guess Cady didn’t mention it, then. “What for?”

“For putting up a hundred K for your bail,” Branch answers, as they pull up outside the Red Pony. 

Henry looks pissed. Well, Henry always looks pissed. Now? Even more so. 

Nevertheless, Branch does get a list of familiar-sounding names. The most familiar being Sam Poteet. 

“These are spiritual men,” Henry warns, before getting out of the cruiser. “Do. Not. Make. Trouble.”

“I hear you,” Branch says, and the cruiser door slams shut a good deal harder than it needs to. He’ll pay for Henry’s bad mood later, but for now… he needs 

Branch heads on back to Durant, hobbles up the stairs to the Department office. 

“Where are the others?” he asks Ruby. 

“Gone to get that missing boy,” she replies. “Wolverine, he calls himself.”

“Sounds like a dork,” Branch mutters, and that gets a laugh out of a couple hikers. He fills out a short report about picking up Henry, conveniently leaving out their peyote talk. Then he pads off to the bathroom— he’s running on not quite enough sleep, just a little too much coffee— and of course that’s when things go to hell. Yelling and screaming and thumping, including Walt’s voice demanding something in the midst of the cacophany.

When Branch leaves the “reading room”, Walt corners him immediately. He remembers it, realises what’s happening even as he closes the door behind him, Walt striding to his office, and then— 

“Branch.”

And obviously Branch can’t just walk off, so he turns on his heel and faces his boss. 

“You look like hell,” Walt says.

“Uh… wasn’t really on top of my game yesterday morning,” Branch mutters, and even as he makes his excuses for not showing up to work, he’s hit with the horrible realisation that he knows exactly what Walt is gonna say. “Sorry I didn’t call in, but—“

“But you were too busy running the same DNA tests on David Ridges I ran three weeks ago,” Walt says. “I talked to Dr Weston, and guess what? The DNA’s a match, same as it was three weeks ago, so there. You have your confirmation. David Ridges is dead. Are you ready to move on?”

Branch can’t speak for a long moment. The dream. He remembers this. Walt seems to take that as a ‘yes, sir’, because he turns back to the door before Branch finds his voice again. He’s going to be sick. 

“Those samples weren’t David,” he manages, before Walt opens the office door, and Walt pauses. “Neither of them were David. They’re mine.”

Walt frowns. 

“What?”

“It was an experiment,” Branch explains. “To see if you can fake cremation ashes. Took my own hair and blood, some animal remains, set it on fire. And this proves it— you can. David Ridges is alive. I saw him. It wasn’t the peyote, Walt. Or at least it wasn’t all the peyote.”

Walt is quiet for a moment. Thoughtful. 

“So you’re proposing that Ridges faked his suicide with Nighthorse’s help? Took his hair and blood, dropped it on an animal carcass and cremated it?”

“Yeah,” Branch replies. “We have proof it can be done, now. Let me reopen the case.”

Walt considers this for onw very long moment. Eventually, he nods. 

“We’ll reopen the case after I finish up with those kids and after you take some actual days off. You’re overworked.”

“So are you,” Branch replies. He needs to start investigating sooner than that. He has proof that Ridges is out there, and God knows what he’ll do next. (A nasty little piece of Branch’s mind says that he’ll probably show up in a bar in Colorado, a ghost in a Snapchat, but he ignores that.) 

“Take ‘yes’ for an answer, Branch,” Walt presses, firmly but not unkindly. Like a father, almost— not that Dad would ever show Branch that kind of care.

“Okay,” Branch agrees, after a moment. He is pretty worn out. He could take one day off, maybe. Just one. Eat some steak and let his wounds heal a little. And then get right back out there, hunting Ridges with Walt’s help this time. 

Walt looks relieved, and he vanishes into the office. Branch will have to plant the files back later, maybe tomorrow. At least this way he knows he’s got time. 


	5. 1 - 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are starting to change... just a little bit... 
> 
> This chapter contains some homophobic slurs, and general asshattery on Branch's part.

Travis Murphy is always eager to help Branch out. 

He was like that in high school too. A huge dork, desperate for attention. Always hero-worshipped Branch, gone out of his way to do whatever Branch wanted, so even though he was a total loser, Branch had been nice to him. Didn’t believe the rumours that he was a faggot or that his mom was a hypochondriac and didn’t tease him for his thrift store clothes. Only roughed him up a _little_ in the locker-rooms and in the halls, and only played small pranks on him, like graffiti on his locker or sticking his shoes in a running sink during gym class. Nothing big. 

Even though they graduated— what? Twenty years ago, now?— Travis is still more or less the same as he ever was. Unquestionably a loser (now living in his childhood bedroom, still struggling to find work, still to awkward to talk to ladies) but one eager to help Branch with whatever he needs. Branch calls Travis at nine, asking if he wants to go get drinks, and Travis shows up at the Red Pony at nine-thirty, flushed and sweaty like he'd been in a rush to get here. 

Travis doesn’t ask for anything back— not money, nothing material at all. Just more hang-out time. Which Branch is pretty happy to put up with— it’s nice to hang out with someone who compliments him all the time and doesn’t want his money, just his attention. And in the end, it only takes about thirty seconds for Branch to convince Travis to help deal with Sam Poteet. 

Travis keeps gazing at Branch like he’s some kind of hero, an idol, keeps laughing and shaking his head. Talking about how he can’t believe they’re finally hanging out, how he wishes they’d done it sooner, how they should do it more. Branch nods along, makes small talk. 

In some ways it’s pretty sad, hearing just how shitty Travis’ life is. But on the other hand, the constant stream of compliments are one hell of an ego boost. Branch has half a mind to hire Travis as a yes-man, a personal assistant or a sidekick or something. He could just make something up— Travis isn’t too proud to turn that shit down. 

Still, Branch is a little sore from their previous argument: he hates getting a gun drawn on him. And Travis probably wouldn’t be useful at whatever Branch gave him to do. No, this is better. Much better. Less messy. He needs someone to help him with Sam Poteet, and all his usual friends and allies would ask too many questions. Travis is too eager to bask in Branch's presence to cause any problems.

Sam Poteet.

Somehow, Branch had known the name before Henry said it. He remembers seeing Poteet’s face in the dream. Maybe it’s nothing, but maybe it’s something. And that’s a chance he has to take. 

It sounds crazy— hell, Branch _feels_ crazy— but he needs to _know_. Needs to know if there’s actually something going on, or if he’s just imagining shit. And the only way to know that is to figure out more about peyote and the White Warriors and David Ridges. 

Travis drives them up to the Rez. His car is terrible, less immediately recognisable than Branch’s. If Matthias finds out Branch was here, he’s screwed, mostly because Walt will find out and go into Disappointed Dad mode and it'll be really _fucking_ annoying. They pull up near Poteet’s place and wait in the darkened car. Travis is clearly confused, but doesn’t say anything. The confusion segues into boredom. Travis taps his fingers on the steering wheel, and the rearview mirror shows Travis casting furtive glances Branch’s way. 

Finally, Travis loses his nerve. Or maybe he gains it— it’s hard to tell with him. 

“You know, when you said you wanted to hang out, I figured there’d be more drinking or… or something.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t totally straight with you,” Branch replies, nonchalantly. He doesn’t bother looking at Travis, his eyes on his target: Poteet’s home. “Remember how I said I had some other leads on who shot me?”

“Yeah,” Travis mumbles, and he sounds nervous when he speaks again. “So… are we on a stakeout?”

Branch gives Travis a sideways glance and the smallest hint of a smile. 

“We are.”

Travis lets out a long exhale, a quiet ‘whoa’. 

“I’m not supposed to be on the Rez without official permission, so I needed your car,” Branch adds. 

Travis looks a little hurt at that. 

“You could’ve just asked,” he mutters.

Branch barely gets halfway through explaining that Sam Poteet is a peyote dealer when his car rolls up in the drive. Poteet switches off the engine, opening the door. 

Time to move.

“Wait here,” Branch mutters, climbing out of the passenger. He sprints the few metres between them and Poteet, and quickly grabs him, muffling his mouth. Poteet struggles, but even as half-healed as Branch is, he’s physically stronger. All those hours lifting weights were worth it. Branch drags him backward toward the car. 

“What’re you doing?” Travis hisses, and Branch fumbles for the door. After a long moment, he manages to open in and force himself and Poteet in the backseat. Travis’ shitty backdoor closes behind them, the door hinge too old and worn to stay open on its own. 

“Drive!” Branch orders, and Travis, bless his little loser heart, obeys immediately. 

Branch grunts, putting more pressure on Poteet’s arms, holding him down mostly with Branch’s own body weight. Eventually, he gets the cuffs in his pocket on Poteet’s wrists, ties a scarf around his eyes. Poteet thrashes, spitting curses in English and Cheyenne, muffled against the fabric of the car seats. 

“Where are we going?!” Travis demands, voice high-pitched and hysterical. 

“My place,” Branch says, and gives him the address. The drive is maybe half an hour, and it’s the longest half hour of his life. 

Once they’re off the Rez, Branch stops pressing Poteet’s head against the seat, lets him cuss until he realises it won’t get him anywhere. Travis drives quickly, the shitty tyres screeching loudly when he takes the corners too fast, the car jerking to a halt when Travis finally pulls up outside the house. 

Poteet struggles more than ever, fighting every inch of the way when they drag him from the car. He’s loud as hell, too. Branch thanks his lucky stars there aren’t any neighbours— the closest house is a good two miles away, and the forest provides a hell of a sound barrier. 

Between the two of them, it’s not hard to get Poteet in the door, through the living room and into the den: a small room that’s mostly used for storage. Branch shoves him to the floor, earning him yet more cursing, and Travis tries to help him up— Poteet kicks at him, curses louder, and that’s enough for Travis to meekly take a seat near the door. 

“I got some questions to ask you, Sam Poteet,” Branch says. Poteet ignores him. Branch rolls his eyes, tries again. “Gotta ask you about a guy called David. David Ridges.”

Silence. 

“Ridges said he was something called a White Warrior. You know anything about that?”

“No,” Poteet spits. “I don’t know anybody called David Ridges and I’ve never heard anything about White Warriors. If you let me go right now, I won’t tell anybody what you did.”

Branch hesitates. It’s not like he’s personally seen Poteet with the White Warriors. Only in a peyote dream. But that’s the point of the peyote, isn’t it? To show you stuff you wouldn’t otherwise see? For the universe to impart some magic wisdom or something? Poteet knew something in the dream, didn’t he? He was connected, right? 

So he has to be lying now. He has to know something. There have been too many weird coincidences for the peyote memories to all be bunk. 

“Oh, Sam,” Branch says, softly. He pats Poteet’s shoulder in a mock-friendly gesture. “I know when you’re lying to me. You’re going to tell me everything. About the peyote… about the time travel… all of it.”

“The _what_?” Travis whispers, barely audible. Branch ignores him. 

“I know that you know Ridges. Where is he?”

“I don’t know. Let me go.”

“He was on the Rez. You were on the Rez, dancing around his ashes. Just tell me where he is.”

“If he’s ashes, he’s dead,” Poteet answers, unhelpfully.

It goes on for hours. Branch asks a question, and Poteet either remains silent or gives an unhelpful answer or a flat out lie. Travis gets up to pee twice, spends most of his time watching Branch nervously, occasionally whispering stupid shit like “dude, you sure we got the right guy?”

The sunrise is pale and grey, seeping through the blinds, turning Poteet’s warm skin ashen. 

“I told you, I don’t know anyone named David Ridges,” Poteet says, just as he did the time before that and the time before that and the time before that. Branch slides his hand into Poteet’s sweat-slick hair, pulls slowly but forcefully. Can’t leave obvious marks. Gotta think about the future. 

“My friend Tom and I know you’re a White Warrior, just like Ridges,” Branch says, through gritted teeth. Travis watches nervously. He doesn’t seem to like the fake name— tough shit. He should’ve come up with something better. 

Poteet just continues with the same stupid-ass lie he’s been repeating all fucking night. 

“My name is Sam Poteet. I work in a hardware store. I never even heard of a White Warrior.” 

Bullshit. Bull. Fucking. Shit. 

Branch _remembers_ him, in the memory-that-wasn’t. He knows, okay? He knows. And besides— Branch knows how innocent people act when being interrogated. They freak out and lawyer up and Poteet is calm as a fucking cucumber. 

“Then why did my friend Tom here see you all painted up with your buddies, dancing around Ridges’ ashes?”

“Ashes?” Poteet asks. “Why are you even looking for this Ridges guy if he’s not alive?”

Poteet thinks he’s a good actor. He isn’t. 

“Why don’t we call one of your White Warrior friends so he can explain it to you?” Branch asks, barely able to contain his frustration. Just say it. Just fucking say it. 

“I know of the Bow String Warriors and the Kit Fox Warriors and the Golden State Warriors,” Poteet replies. “But I don’t know any White Warriors.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Branch snaps. Why is he being so stubborn?!

“Hey, if he knew anything, he’d have told you by now,” Travis protests, and… and Branch has to admit, that’s a pretty good point. He doesn’t really… It’s not like there’s any evidence. Just the peyote dream. 

God. As much as he hates to admit it… maybe Travis is right. 

“Give me the thermos,” Branch says, holding his hand out. Travis obliges, his clammy fingers lingering a moment too long. 

It takes a moment to force Poteet’s mouth open, and by that time, Travis is pushing the peyote flask into Branch’s free hand. Branch uncaps the flask, starts pouring it down Poteet’s throat, forcing his mouth and nose closed so that Poteet has no choice but to swallow. Most of it splashes down Poteet’s face and neck, but he swallows some by the time the flask is empty. 

Branch hopes it’s enough. 

* * *

Travis starts bitching and whining on the way back to the Rez. He’s been all awkward and stiff since the interrogation started, barely helped stuff the drugged-up Poteet back in the car. 

“What are we doing?” he asks, sounding just like a goddamn child. Branch doesn’t give him so much as a glance— it’s hard to drive on these shitty, unpaved, barely-more-than-a-dirt-trail roads, especially in a car that’s pretty much just running on hope. 

“What’s wrong? You scared?” Branch replies, though he already knows the answer. “You could’ve bailed out at any time.”

“Man, I didn’t even know what you were doing!” Travis whines. “When you grabbed that guy, for all I knew a bunch of Cheyenne drug dealers were gonna come after us with Uzis and tomahawks! And then I realised you were taking him hostage and I just wanted to make sure that, y’know, you didn’t... screw up your entire life.”

“By what?” Branch asks. “Killing him? How crazy do you think I am?”

Travis doesn’t answer, because he’s spineless. Branch takes a deep breath.

“Look,” he says, trying to sound more appeasing. “I’m not gonna screw up my life.”

“Yeah, I thought the same thing when I pulled that gun on you,” Travis says, which just proves that Branch is right. “Now look at me…” 

“That’s the thing, guys like you get caught,” Branch says. He flashes Travis a winning smile. “Guys like me don’t.”

It looks like they’re pretty far out in the scrublands now, so Branch stops the car. In the trunk, Poteet groans. 

“Let me out… let me out…” 

Branch gets out, unlocks the trunk. Travis follows, still looking spinelessly apprehensive. 

“It tastes like purple in here!” Poteet slurs, thrashing angrily. 

“The hell did you give him?” Travis asks. 

“Peyote tea,” Branch answers. He’s got plenty at home. Maybe he needs another trip, since the last one was clearly a dud. 

When Branch hauls Poteet out of the trunk, Travis helps him— it’s harder to manoeuvre Poteet like this, when he’s barely cognisant, hardly able to stand under his own power. “He’ll still be hallucinating by the time they find him. Nobody will believe a damn thing he says.”

Okay, maybe Branch is still a little bitter over that. Fuck Walt. He doesn't plan to let Poteet see their faces, but... whatever.

Travis walks him up to a point about ten metres from the dirt road while Branch closes the trunk. 

“Are we _seriously_ just going to leave him out here?” Travis asks. 

“I’m sure the spirits will take good care of him,” Branch replies, coolly. And, because Travis still looks worried, Branch rolls his eyes. “Don’t uncuff him. I got a burner phone and we’re gonna leave an anonymous tip with the tribal police.” 

“Uh… okay,” Travis replies, and he pushes Poteet forward a couple steps, heading back to the car. 

Poteet stumbles, lands on his knees. 

“They say they cracked you open for real this time,” Poteet yells, apparently to nobody in particular. It feels like he’s talking to Branch, though. “Now you can let all that dark stuff out…”

Then Poteet starts vomiting, and that’s a pretty good sign it’s time to go the fuck home and catch up on some rest. 

Branch tosses the burner phone to Travis, who almost drops it. 

“Reckon we’re about two and a half miles east along South Ridge Road. When you’re done, toss the phone out the window,” Branch tells him, and rattles off the Tribal Police number. 

Branch climbs into the driver’s seat, starts up the engine. Travis slides into the passenger, fumbling with the phone, casting furtive glances at Branch. 

“Um, hello? I have, uh… I have an anonymous tip…”

Matthias will send someone quickly. He’s good like that. 

Branch smiles to himself and starts the engine.


	6. 1 - 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not really happy with this chapter but i just wanna get this loop finished asap so we can start having fun

Travis is all jumpy when Branch pulls up outside the Red Pony, has to reassure Travis that he wasn’t really gonna hurt Poteet, that they’re not gonna get caught. Travis doesn’t look happy, but he nods anyway and soon enough Branch is walking back through his door. He’ll clean up the den later, after he’s had some time to sleep. And sleep he does. 

After waking again a couple hours later, it’s a little hard to figure out what ought to be done next. Branch had been counting on Sam Poteet to know something, anything, so for him to be so astoundingly useless… well, it throws a real wrench in the works. The trail’s gone cold.

Henry’s clearly pissed at him— wouldn’t accept his money the other night. Probably best to give the guy some space. That leaves Branch a little stuck. He’d kind of been counting on goodwill extending from Henry’s good relationships with Cady and Walt to get more information on all this Indian stuff. Nighthorse would probably know some shamans or something who’d be able to help him with David Ridges and the peyote dream, but… well. There's a problem with that.

Branch _knows_ the dream was just a dream. It was just peyote. Right? It felt real, but it couldn’t have been. It just _couldn’t._

Still, even knowing all that, he can’t _quite_ bring himself to trust Nighthorse. He knows it would be the logical thing to do— go ask the guy who has real sway over the Cheyenne community. Go ask him for help, or to put Branch in touch with someone else who could help. But Branch is _sure_ he saw Nighthorse in the dream, standing with Ridges. And then there’s the elephant in the room, the one Branch has been trying and trying and trying to avoid thinking about. 

He hasn’t checked the financial records to see if Dad really did hire one of Nighthorse’s goons to take out Martha Longmire. He hasn’t checked yet, mostly because he doesn’t wanna be right. It’s already hard enough to go over every few days and make small talk. The whole thing with running against Cady’s dad for his job was a little assholish, he’s man enough to admit he probably oughta been nicer about it, but if Martha was really killed just ‘cause Branch thought he’d look good with that badge pinned to his jacket…

No, there’s no point in thinking about it. It didn’t really happen. He needs to figure out what the dream means— there’s all kinds of symbolism and shit, right? It’s not that straightforward. No way. 

Branch needs help. Some time to himself to figure out what the fuck is happening. Walt gave him a couple days off, so now’s as good time as any.

Branch had spent a couple days in the hospital scribbling his peyote-induced nightmares into a notebook, which is a good place to start. Now the book is sitting in his desk at the Sheriff’s Office. He left his other jacket there, too. The dark grey-green, slightly waterproof one.

Durant is quiet as he drives in, like it always is. Moretti looks pissed when Branch walks through the station door, like she always does. Just another day.

“What’s wrong?” Branch asks, picking his jacket off his chair, shrugging it on. 

“Matthias called,” Moretti replies, not even looking up from her reports. “Couple of white guys kidnapped a man off the Rez, held him captive all night, and tossed him in the desert. Victim didn’t see anything, and all they got to go on is a voice recording of the guy who called in an ‘anonymous tip’.” 

“Don’t sound like there’s a whole lot we can do to help ‘em,” Branch replies, trying to sound nonchalant. 

“It’s a mess,” Moretti shakes her head. “A real fucking mess. The phone was a burner, number got cut off already. They’re looking for it now, but the signal out there’s shit, they’re not gonna find a damn thing.” 

They better not, Branch thinks. Travis’ fingerprints are all over that thing. He opens his drawer. Where’d he put the notebook with all his peyote scribbles?

“The hell would someone wanna kidnap some Indian for?” he asks, out loud. “He owe money or something?” 

“Dunno,” Moretti shrugs. “Guy’s high on peyote and dehydrated as hell, so they ain’t gonna figure anything out until he gets back to Planet Earth.” 

“I bet it’s a money thing,” Branch says, opening the second drawer. There it is. He picks up the notebook, stows it in his jacket pocket. “Hardware store probably pays shit. Where’s Walt?”

“Uh— he’s headed out, said he’s taking today off. Just me and Ferg in.”

“Good luck,” Branch shoots her a winning smile. “See you round.” 

Moretti waves Branch off and he heads downstairs, back to his car, considering his predicament. Maybe the Absaroka library would have some information… Hell, if he calls first and asks nicely, maybe makes a donation, maybe the ladies at the Rez library will cut him some slack and let him look through the books there. Google hasn’t been helping him much lately.

The library is right across the square, so he just walks on over. His wounds are healing up well, ‘cause he makes it all the way to the local history shelves before he has to stop a moment and take a breather. 

Branch’s positive feelings are short lived, though. He spends a couple hours sitting at a table in the back, reading and taking notes. 

The books are boring as hell, and what little information Branch can glean from the pages doesn’t match up with his notes about the peyote dream or what little he remembers. There’s a lot of shit about owls in the book, and he doesn’t remember seeing any in the dream. Well, that’s a lie— this is Wyoming, there are plenty of owls around. But none that really stick out. No bad portents or whatever. 

There’s nothing in the books about White Warriors or time travel. Nothing about dreams that fortell the future, except some infuriatingly vague references to shamanism and sweat lodges. Nothing helpful at all. All Branch gets is eyestrain. 

Branch heads back to the station to drop off his unhelpful notes. Moretti’s in the reception, talking with Ruby. They both give him a nod of acknowledgement, a short wave. He sits down for a moment— those stairs are a killer, especially considering how much he did in the early hours of today, and that’s about the time Walt leaves the office with Uncle Lucian. 

“Wasn’t expecting to see you here,” Walt says. Branch glances up. Shit. He probably shouldn’t let Walt know about the notes. Doesn’t wanna seem crazy. 

“Figured I’d finish up some paperwork,” he mutters. “So I can hit the ground running tomorrow.” 

Walt looks like he wants to protest, but doesn’t. He’s got no place to judge Branch for feeling like he needs to work. Branch saw what he was like after Martha passed. 

Branch rises from his desk, looks Uncle Lucian dead in the eye. 

“I’m doing fine, by the way,” he says. “Thanks for visiting me in the hospital.”

“I don’t do hospitals, nephew,” Uncle Lucian replies, gruff and assholish as ever. “Just like you don’t do old folks’ homes.” 

And… well, there ain’t much to say after that. Branch does a little paperwork, just for a quarter hour or so to add a little credence to his story, and then he heads out, back home, and passes out pretty much the moment his head hits the pillow. 

* * *

The next day, the search for Hector starts up. Moretti’s all cold to Branch in the morning, and in the aftenoon, she and Walt start poring over a map in the main office. 

“Sounds like Hector,” Walt murmurs, about the kinda-stolen chicken case. Someone nabbed it, left behind market value— twenty dollars. “He always follows a code.”

A pause. 

“Cady told me a woman came in begging her to stop the search,” Walt adds. 

“Adele Chapman,” Moretti says. She points to a spot near Rochester, and Walt puts down a paperweight. 

“The hiker’s description didn’t sound anything like Hector,” Moretti says. Branch reaches for the notes, looks them over for himself. “Uh, why mark her house?”

“Who comes in and asks you to stop looking for a wanted man? Walt asks. “Someone who knows where he is. And both these locations are close to the caves at Summer Pass, where that hiker claimed he saw an Indian.” 

“Well, yeah,” Moretti says, crossing her arms. Branch reaches forward, snags the legal pad, gives the description a skim-read. “But the hiker’s description didn’t sound anything like Hector.”

“Long hair… thin build… medium height…” Branch mutters, reading it over. He knows. It’s stupid, but he knows. That description could be almost any Indian on the Rez, but Branch is sure, absolutely certain— who else would need to hide in a remote place like that? He rifles through his top drawer, pulling out a photo. “You know who it is, right? It’s David Ridges.”

Moretti sighs. Walt blinks. Branch continues. 

“You said it yourself, Walt. There’s a chance he could still be alive. I don’t think it’s Hector hiding up there.”

Walt nods, looking thoughtful. 

“There’s only one way to find out,” he says. 

* * *

By the time they reach Summer Pass, it’s too late. Someone killed Hector. They fucking scalped him. 

Hector’s not quite gone when they find him. He’s real stubborn for a dying man. He spouts some poetic shit, asks to die under the sky, so all three of them pitch in to help him over to a rock that juts out from under the outcropping. 

“This is between me and my ancestors now,” Hector says, and he lies there, quiet and still, before the life leaves his eyes and he becomes silent and still. Just another victim of Ridges. 

There won’t be any others, Branch promises, silently, to himself. 


	7. 1 - 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the late chapter. this one was very hard to write, because of the nighthorse flashback. still, i think i'll be able to put out another chapter this month, to make up for it. hope you enjoy, because we're finally getting close to the endgame of season three... and therefore the first loop.

  
Nighthorse. What a joke. 

Just as Branch had been seriously considering going to the Cheyenne councilman for help (not anything concrete, just a nudge in the right direction), Nighthorse had to show his true colours. 

Branch had gone up to the casino site with Walt, had tried to force some answers out of him. Branch had grabbed him, ready to haul Nighthorse to the station ‘cause the casino is technically their jurisdiction, and that’s when they heard the oil-slick sound of Malachi Strand's voice. 

“I think you’d better let my employer go,” Strand called 

Branch glanced over, only to see Strand, surrounded by several men, all of whom were larger and more imposing than Branch and Walt.

“You’re working security now?” Walt asked. Strand shrugged. 

“My old job has been taken,” he replied. “What are you doing here?”

“Asking your boss some hard questions about Hector’s death, and David Ridges’ attempts at murder,” Branch hissed, and out of the corner of his eye, Walt winced. 

Oh. Shit. Too much detail. 

“Well, I hope you have evidence to connect Mr Nighthorse to those terrible crimes,” Strand said, with a shit-eating grin. “Because if not, his lawyer is going to have a field day. And so are we. Tell me, which Federal agency deals with internal affairs for Sheriff’s Departments?” 

Walt glared at Strand. 

“We just came to ask some questions,” he said. 

“I told you, those incidents have nothing to do with me,” Nighthorse snapped, still struggling against Branch’s grasp.

“It looks as though my employer has answered them,” Strand said, still smiling. “And so it looks like you need to go back to your jurisdiction, officer.”

There was a tense moment of silence before Walt nodded at Branch. Branch let Nighthorse go, staggering then falling forward onto the dirt. 

“Be back for you later,” Branch hissed. “Lying piece of crap.” 

“And you’re ungrateful,” Nighthorse replied, standing. He brushed imaginary dirt off his nice suit, not bothering to look either Branch or Walt in the eye. “Goodbye.” 

Two days of hard work later, and Branch is running out of leads and patience. 

They need to find Ridges. That’s the most important thing right now. Everything else can wait: Malachi, Nighthorse, even Cady’s increasingly worried voicemails and text messaged. 

Before work one afternoon, Branch heads over to the county assayer’s, has a good long talk with his buddy, Chris, about the maps of the cave system in the area Hector had been hiding in and starting a search. By the time Branch gets to the Sheriff’s department, maybe an hour later, it’s a real shitstorm. Reporters swarming everywhere, like locusts, and he knows what’s up before he Ruby and Ferg tell him: Van Blarcom. 

Branch takes care of his ever-growing mound of paperwork while he waits, ignoring the furtive glances Ruby and Ferg shoot him. When Walt and Moretti walk in, Moretti is a bitch like always. She’s cold and harsh and then she invites herself along to Branch’s search, like she thinks he can’t be trusted to do a simple thing like ‘set up cameras to look for time-travelling Indians’ on his own. 

Branch briefly argues because he knows she’ll be a drag: probably never camped a day in her life. But Walt insists on letting her tag along, and Branch doesn’t feel like having a blow-out, not today, not now he's finally being believed about the whole Ridges thing. So Branch rolls his eyes and nods along. Good thing he has enough supplies for three or four days in the wilderness-- should stretch to two days for two people. Just means he’ll have to come back again later, at some point. 

The drive to that area of woodland is uneventful. Branch and Moretti take the equipment from his truck, start setting up. Moretti’s surprisingly good with the cameras: she takes one look at the schematics and understands what to do, doesn’t need Branch’s help to place them. Which means more time for getting the campsite ready, and _that’s_ when things start going south. 

"We’re gonna sleep out here?” Moretti looks horrified. 

“Who said anything about sleep?” Branch asks, shrugging a bag over his shoulder. 

“You gotta sleep sometime!” Moretti exclaims. Branch grits his teeth. 

“What’re you doing out here, Vic?” he asks. “I said I was fine on my own. Go back. You can take my truck if you want.” 

He’s perfectly capable of hiking back to his place— he knows the lands of Absaroka like the back of his hand. Maybe take a half-day longer, 'cause he's a lot slower these days, but he's getting better. But he'll get there.

“I don’t feel very comfortable leaving you out here when there’s a murderer on the loose,” Moretti replies, looking disgusted that he’d even suggest that. “Especially one that’s so hell-bent on killing you.”

Okay, that’s a nice surprise. A stupid surprise— he can take care of himself, thanks, he's not some snot-nosed kid— but still. Nice. He hadn’t known she’d cared. 

Branch kicks the leftover bag with his foot. 

“There’s some extra gear in there,” he says. A sleeping bag, plus some water, some food, a spare shovel, and a couple rolls of toilet paper.

Moretti stops complaining after that. She’s pretty quiet, only making the occasional comment.

“You sure you don’t wanna sleep here? Looks more comfortable than over there,” she says, when they’re rolling out their sleeping bags. “Might be better support, too. How’s the shoulder holding up?”

“It’s fine,” Branch says. “I’m fine. I don’t sleep too well out here, anyway.” 

“You seriously not gonna sleep?” Moretti asks, clearly annoyed. It’s like everything he does pisses her off. “Jesus. How are you even alive?” 

“Someone’s gotta look out for Ridges,” Branch snaps. 

“There’s two of us,” Moretti says, forcefully. “We’ll take shifts. How about I take the first… I dunno, four hours, you take the last?” 

Branch can’t really argue, because Moretti’s already got the camera control panel on her lap, already checking her gun, and… okay, it’s a pretty big help. He knows he needs to take better care of himself. Needs to sleep and eat and all that other crap, and if there’s someone there to pick up the slack… 

Still, it’s annoying. To be treated like some stupid kid and not an adult in his own right. 

Branch doesn’t really sleep. He just drifts in and out of a light doze, jerking awake every time he hears a twig breaking or the leaves rustling too loud, or Moretti clearing her throat. But it’s better than nothing, and soon enough she’s waking him up, shoving the camera panel next to him.

“Big fat nothing. Got some coffee on the fire,” she says, and immediately returns to her bag, zipping herself up, falling asleep in moments. 

Branch fast-forwards through her watch hours, just to confirm: nothing. She’s right. 

By way of thanks, Branch starts on breakfast about a half hour before they’re due to head out again. 

“No thanks… I’ll pass…” Moretti mumbles, still half-asleep. She’s clearly not as good as Branch at operating on less sleep. A liability. 

“Again, if you want to head back…” Branch offers, shoving some scrambled egg into his mouth. 

“No, it’s fine,” Moretti yawns, rubbing her eyes. “I’ll wait until Walt can get here.”

That again. Branch Connally is a grown-ass adult, not a child. He doesn't need supervision.

“You think I can’t be out here on my own?” he asks, and this time he doesn’t bother trying to hide how pissed he is. 

Moretti looks pissed too. She glares at Branch, in that cold way she has when she thinks the fellas are trying to talk down to her.

“Really, I said it’s fine,” she says, through gritted teeth, like this is about the eggs. 

A thought occurs. In the dream, Moretti had somehow figured out what happened with Poteet…

“What do you think I’m gonna do?” he asks, and the words feel familiar in his mouth. Just as familiar is Moretti’s answer. She huffs, starts packing away her sleeping back. 

“I don’t know, Branch. Kidnap a guy and force him to take peyote?”

Shit.

Travis… For God's sake, Branch should never have trusted that idiot. Too desperate for attention. Of course he’d spill the beans to a pretty lady like Moretti. 

Branch's sudden silence is damning. Moretti lets out a breathy laugh, like she can’t believe what she's _not_ hearing.

“So you’re not gonna deny it?” 

Branch waits. He can't think of an excuse. Anyway, she’ll slip up, tell him what he needs to know. 

“Okay,” Moretti sounds furious now. “Maybe _now_ you understand why I'm not so excited to leave you out here alone.” 

“You think I’m losing it,” Branch mutters. Situation’s way worse than he thought. He shakes his head, a bitter taste in his mouth. “You have no idea what it’s like to know the truth and not have anybody believe you.”

Moretti starts laughing now, full-on bitchy laughter, like Branch is some kind of joke. 

“I can’t believe you,” she says. “Jesus, Branch.”

“The only way to prove Ridges was alive and that he shot me was to break a couple laws,” Branch insists. “We didn’t hurt that guy! We just used the peyote he already had on him. And let’s not forget _I was right_ about Ridges!” 

Moretti shakes her head, scoffing again, packing more items into her roll. She stomps her way around the site, clearly intending to go off and tattle.

“Oh, come on!” Branch complains, ‘cause she’s being unfair and she needs to know it. “We both work for a man who doesn’t stop until he has answers!”

“Don’t compare yourself to Walt!” Moretti snaps, walking past Branch. “You’re half the man he is. And for the record? Travis didn’t tell me _anything_. You incriminated _yourself_ , you dumbass. How’d you know Poteet worked in a hardware store if you’d never met him before, huh? You said it yourself, couldn’t have been a money-motivated kidnapping ‘cause his job pays fuckin’ _pennies_.”

Branch stares at her, the barb on the tip of his tongue about Moretti’s transparent crush on Mr. Man-pain himself withering. 

Shit, he _had_ said that, hadn't he? A confession from Travis can be explained away: he’s just some idiot who drinks too much, had a bad drug trip, hell— maybe he can dredge up those old high school rumours, make out like it’s just spite ‘cause Branch turned down his advances. But a mistake on Branch’s part? He can’t make that go away so easy.

He needs to smooth things over. _Now._

“Look, I’d understand if you felt like you needed to tell Walt,” Branch tries again. “But this isn’t about me trying to save my job. This is about me trying to find the guy who shot me, who scalped and murdered Hector, and— for all we know— might be coming back for me.” 

Come on, he wills, seeing the cogs in Moretti’s head turning. After that shit with Gorski, she surely won’t be able to take any course of action that could see Branch dead— either by Ridges or his own hand. 

“So you do what you gotta do,” Branch finishes, amicably as he can. “But I’m telling you that my conscience is clear.” 

Moretti looks furious, but she’s no longer stomping off. One second, then two,

She throws her bundle of stuff to Branch, clearly deciding to stay. 

“I gotta pee,” she hisses, and flounces off to the woodland for privacy. 

Branch watches her approach the treeline, then goes back to watching the river, taking another bite of his eggs. Crisis averted… for now, anyway. 


	8. 1 - 8

Branch has a bad feeling about Moretti’s weekend trip to where-the-fuck-ever. She keeps talking about it, some romantic getaway (like that’ll fix the fundamental problem in her marriage, which is that her husband is a moron and that Moretti clearly wants Walt to bang her like a screen door in a hurricane) and it keeps giving Branch a bad feeling. Something’s gonna go wrong, he’s sure of it. 

Still, it’s not any of Branch’s business, and he watches her go off home, and then Walt pulls him into the office to scold him like a goddamn child.

“What, you gonna hand me another book?” Branch asks, glaring at Walt. “Pull me off my investigation to do something you could have Ruby do?” 

He’s sick of it. The constant kid-gloves and the condescension, just when he thought he was finally getting somewhere. 

“Ruby’s not an investigator, Branch,” Walt snaps. “You are!”

“Damn right I am!” Branch yells right back. “And I’m trying to find a guy who shot two men! But I guess since it didn’t directly affect you, it’s a low priority!”

The _hypocrisy_. Walt’s concentrating so hard on Martha’s murder case that he can’t see what’s happening around him.

Branch isn’t about to bring up Nighthorse and Dad’s potential involvement again— it was a dream, and Walt’s made it pretty damned clear he doesn’t actually believe or give a damn about Branch any further than how useful he is in the immediate moment. 

Branch scowls. Maybe if he were all but begging for Walt’s dick, like Moretti is, like Martha presumably used to, then he wouldn’t be having these problems. Maybe if he bent over every time Walt wanted to act like a tough guy, scrambled to obey him like Ferg and Ruby, he might actually be getting somewhere.

“It affected me plenty!” Walt shouts, angrier than Branch ever remembers seeing him. He pauses, forces himself to take a deep breath, then points to the office door. “Now, we only got so many people here. We need to put our resources where they can do the most good.” 

“Which _you_ decide,” Branch says, accusingly. 

“That’s right, Branch. Which _I_ decide.”

“Ridges killed Hector. That has a direct impact on Henry’s trial— I would’ve thought that would’ve _mattered_ to you.”

“It does,” Walt cuts across Branch. “But I’m not gonna hunt down David Ridges and kill him, which seems to be the only plan you have right now.” 

Branch opens his mouth to argue, but Walt continues. 

“Now, I’m going to Denver for a couple days. Try and make some sense of this new Darius information. I expect you to be here, helping us out, investigating.” Walt looks at Branch, finishing calmly. “Now, you think you can do that?” 

Branch looks away. 

“Honestly, Walt… I don’t know.”

Walt sighs, and then he leaves anyway. 

Asshole. If they’re so short-staffed, why doesn’t he stay in Absaroka until Moretti gets back? Would free up Branch to do his thing, which would help Henry and, more importantly, stop David Ridges. 

Branch takes his sweet time washing and changing. Walt wants him here, he’ll stay here. He strips, bathes away his two days spent in the woods checking on the cameras, using the sink. He scrubs every inch of his body, between his toes and behind his ears, and then he rolls on a couple layers of deodorant, brushes his teeth, even spends a couple minutes picking gunk out of his nails. He dresses in clean clothes, runs his fingers through his damp hair, and sprays a little Axe, just to be sure.

When Branch finally emerges, ready to pour himself some coffee and follow Walt’s instructions to the letter (and no further, fuck that guy and his self-centred bullshit, Branch shoulda won that election), Ferg’s on the radio. 

“I need you to run a license plate,” Walt’s voice comes over the radio all crackly and tinny. “Victor, Tango, November, 1-2-7-6, X-ray. Not sure of the state, probably Pennsylvania.”

“Is it Darius?” Ferg asks, scribbling the plate down. 

“No, the driver is Ed Gorski,” comes the reply. 

“Wait, Ed Gorski as in…?”

“Ferg, just run the plate. I got reason to believe Gorski abducted someone,” Walt snaps.

“Who?”

“Vic. Radio me back when you know something.”

That’t the end of the conversation. Ferg puts the mic down, then turns around, looking like a rabbit in the headlights when he spots Branch waiting behind him.

More secrets. Something Walt doesn’t want Branch to know. 

Tough shit. 

“What’s Ed Gorski doing out here?” Branch prompts, and predictably Ferg doesn’t wanna tell him. Wants to keep him out of the loop. Probably wants to take Branch’s place. He’s an asshole, too, but a worse kind— pretending to be friendly and nice. 

“Huh?” 

“Come on, Ferg,” Branch presses. “Didn’t Walt deal with him? Though he left the county.” 

Ferg looks confused. 

“You know about that?” he asks. “I, uh, wasn’t sure if it was Walt, or…”

Branch pauses. Of course he knows. He read about the whole thing with Vic with Ferg right next to him. They’d been reading ‘cause Walt thought he’d kidnapped Vic. In… it was in the peyote dream. It was this, but in the dream.

Branch feels sick. 

“Heard Walt say he kidnapped Vic. Gorski got kicked off the force ‘cause of Vic’s testimony,” Branch continues, doing his best to shake off the bad feeling. “If Gorski’s really involved, we gotta move fast.”

Walt wants Branch to stick around and investigate? Fine. He’ll investigate the hell out of this.

Branch tells Ferg to stay put. He heads over to Moretti’s place, see if he can gather some clues as to where they were going. No point in calling Walt, ‘cause he’ll just think Branch is trying to get out of doing his job, probably just gonna spout more bullshit. 

Doesn’t take long to find out where they went— Jackson, a nice little town near Yellowstone, nestled in a mountain pass. Branch can guess the route pretty easily, but opens up Moretti’s laptop just to be safe— she would’ve printed off directions from Google Maps or something, he know. 

Branch finds it pretty easily, ‘cause she still had the tab open, just minimised. It’s not the route Branch would’ve chosen, it’s a more scenic route that goes through woodlands. But it’ll help him pinpoint where she could be: he’ll just have to follow that route until he spots the car.

And that’s when something else catches his eye. A Word document, saved on the desktop: _Dear Walt_. He clicks it. 

_Dear Walt_

_It is with great regret that I write this report about the conduct of my colleague, Deputy Branch Connally. I feel it necessary to call your attention to his actions as of late, which include a variety of unsavoury and illegal choices. He recently spearheaded an unfortunate incident with one Travis Murphy. Together with Murphy, Deputy Connally kidnapped a local man named Sam Poteet and together then compelled Mr Poteet to consume peyote, a potent hallucinogenic drug. His denial of the severity of his actions, as well as his consistently unstable behaviour in the aftermath of his recent shooting, have lead me to write this letter. I believe he is suffering from feelings of acute distress that could hinder his performance. I fear for his safety, as well as for the safety of those around him, including our fellow deputies. I am under the distinct impression Deputy Connally is in no way planning to come forward on his own behalf with information about his recent behaviour, and felt the responsibility to bring it to your attention. Please accept this account as my sincere attempt to curb any future wrongdoings on the part of members of our office._

_Respectfully,_

_Deputy Victoria Moretti_

Branch stares for a long moment. 

That _bitch_. Of course. It’s so obvious now he thinks about it— _that’s_ why Walt’s been such a hardass lately. 

Branch’s cell rings. It’s Ferg. 

“Hey,” Branch answers. 

“The highway patrol found Gorski’s car, abandoned. And Walt’s Bronco was parked nearby, next to a wrecked convertible, but no sign of Walt. The trooper’s gonna canvass the area, but he says it’s pretty sparsely populated.”

“Tell me where they found the cars,” Branch says. 

He needs to fix this. If Walt is with Moretti, he needs— maybe there’s a chance of finding the letter, maybe… maybe he’s not totally screwed yet. Or maybe the trooper is gonna find the letter, and then Branch is gonna be in for a Federal level of hell. That’s what Rez crimes count as, isn’t it? Some of them, anyway… The serious ones, at least. Matthias is always complaining.

Ferg is quick to divulge the information, some address that’s still technically Absaroka— but only just— and Branch leaps into action. Drives like hell, and screeches to a halt as soon as he sees the Bronco. 

“Walt!” Branch yells, slamming the door behind him. “Walt!” 

No sign of the trooper’s vehicle. No Walt, nobody. 

Branch checks the car. Pretty standard minor wreck, looks like whoever was driving— probably Sean, idiot he is— veered off the road, hitting a tree. Probably no major injuries. No obvious letters. 

Branch checks the back, where the trunk is popped open. Her bags are still in there. He gives them a quick search, just in case. Nothing. 

Maybe he’s got time. 

Moretti will be fine on her own for a while, especially if Walt’s out there looking for her. 

Branch has better things to do.


	9. 1 - 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lads, we are so close to finishing the season.... so close! 
> 
> so here, have 'the beginning of the end of branch's second mental breakdown', aka 'harvest' but with a lot of self-justification and pining on branch's part
> 
> i fudged a couple details, like the app branch receives the messages on and whose car they take to denver, just 'cause i felt they flowed better than the actual canon.

News travels fast in a tiny town like Durant. Branch hears Walt got shot, and when he gets into the station, Moretti is on the phone to her husband, scolding him for whatever reason. So she survived Gorski, after all. 

Shame. 

“You okay?” he asks, mostly because he _has_ to.

Moretti closes her laptop, gives Branch a tight smile. 

“I’ve been better,” she says. 

There’s silence for a while, both Moretti and Branch focusing on their never-ending stream of paperwork. Branch sips his coffee, considers whether he oughta go to Busy Bee’s for lunch or head on over to the Mexican place Uncle Lucian likes so much. Ruby answers the phone occasionally, types loudly on her computer. And then there’s a call that sounds urgent, the little of it Branch hears on Ruby’s end. 

“Guys, Walt has a dead farmer out near Shawnee road,” Ruby totters over, pastes a sticky note with the information on the desk while Moretti grabs a coffee refill. 

“Why don’t you go ahead and go?” Moretti asks, not looking at Branch. Like she hasn't spent the whole last two months pretending like Branch is just some sick kid, like she hasn't been planning to backstab him for God-knows-how-long.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Branch asks, airy as he can manage. He looks her dead in the eyes. “Could be gruesome. Might 'trigger feelings of acute distress that’ll hinder my performance'.”

Moretti’s eyes widen. 

“What did you say?”

“That’s what you think, isn’t it?” Branch presses. He’s not sure why, but he needs to hear her say it. Needs to hear her admit to being a two-faced _shrew_. 

“Maybe, but I never _said it_ ,” Moretti snarls. She stalks into Walt’s office, away from Ruby’s earshot. “Get over here.”

Branch does. Can’t wait to hear her excuses. 

“I wrote it, in those exact words, in a document on my computer. Have you been on my laptop?” Moretti demands. She’s starting to crack, looking distressed. 

Branch gazes at her, cold as he can. 

“You tell me,” he says. “Apparently, you know me better than I do.”

“That laptop was at my house, Branch!” Moretti raises her voice, loud enough that Ruby can probably hear it. Not good. “Did you _break_ into my _home_?!”

Branch grabs Moretti’s arm— she makes a sound, squirms like he’s hurting her— and drags her into the reading room. 

“You were missing,” he snarls. “I was trying to find you!”

“And opening up a document on my computer is gonna help you do that?!”

“Are you gonna rat me out like your friends Bobby Donolato and Ed Gorski?” Branch replies, and Moretti actually physically flinches. “How’s that working out for you?”

It’s a low blow, but if there’s anything that could shut her up… she probably thinks he’s nutso enough to off himself. 

Moretti pulls herself together quickly, glaring at Branch. 

“This macho intimidation bullshit may work on drunk girls at frat parties, but it doesn’t work on me, so _get the **hell** out of my face_!” 

Branch considers her carefully. Might end up with a concussion too, if he continues pushing. He steps back, opens the door for her, his eyes never leaving hers. She storms out. 

Branch waits a moment, then follows her out into the office. The main door slams shut, Ruby glancing up from her desk in surprise. There are loud, angry footsteps on the stairs. 

If Ruby heard their blow-out, she’s doing a damn good job at hiding it. She looks at Branch, wordlessly.

“She lost rock, paper, scissors,” Branch offers, with a shrug. Ruby nods, goes back to… whatever it is she does when Walt isn’t deliberately wasting Branch’s time. 

Branch goes back to his paperwork, continues musing on his plan to catch Ridges. The cameras haven’t shown anything yet, so maybe he oughta order a couple more, stick them around some more caves in the area. There are a few difficult entrances and exits he and Moretti didn’t cover, so maybe Ridges is using those. It's something to consider, anyway.

* * *

Branch is still musing on the cameras when Cady comes in, pretty as ever. It’s real nice to see her- it’s been a while ‘cause she’s busy with Henry’s case and Branch is trying to give her space after the whole wrist thing. She still has a cast, but she smiles at him, holding it up when she notices him stare.

“It’s coming off next week,” she says. 

“Good to hear,” Branch replies, and he opens his mouth to apologise again. Cady immediately shushes him. 

“Don’t tell me you’re sorry,” she says. “I know. It wasn’t your fault. Anyway, I’m here about something else. Can we talk?”

Cady’s clutching papers in her other hand, so the ‘something else’ probably isn’t a date, much as Branch would like that. 

“Why am I guessing this isn’t a personal visit?”

Cady chuckles, nervously. So he’s right. 

“Yeah, so… um. Here’s the deal. My dad was gonna go to Denver with me to help with Henry’s case,” Cady starts, babbling nervously as she pulls Ferg’s chair to Branch’s deck, sitting with her papers and her hands in her lap. “But, um, he got called away on this murder, so I have a backup plan.”

Cady flips through her papers, holds one out to Branch. It’s a letter addressed to Cady. Some kind of business. _Thank you for your interest in our services_ , it reads, and there’s a price list. 

“Most professional private investigators cost about seventy-five dollars an hour. I’m looking to hire one to do twenty-four hours of investigation in Denver. Covering expenses and travel, that will come to about twenty-five hundred dollars.” 

Cady looks ashamed of what she’s asking, and she should be. He's a _cop_ , not a _bank_.

“So…” Branch glances down at the paper. “You want me to loan you more money to help Henry’s case?”

Cady nods, looking awkward. 

“And hopefully, um, give a P.I. recommendation,” Cady flashes Branch a nervous smile. “Um, the trial’s in six weeks, and I _really_ need to track down this Darius guy. He’s my only alternate suspect.”

Branch sighs, shifting in his chair. 

“What do you think?” Cady asks, with a soft, pretty smile. 

“I think I’m a little offended,” Branch tells her, bluntly. The pretty smile drops, horror blossoming across her features. 

“I— I’m sorry,” Cady stammers, gathering her papers like she’s ready to bolt in embarrassment. “I—“

“Why are you asking me for _money_?” Branch cuts across her. “Why not just ask me to help?”

Cady looks at him, surprised.

Branch smiles. Cady smiles back. 

Things happen pretty quickly after that. Branch tells Cady to go home and pack her suitcase, he’ll pick her up in a half hour. He sorts his paperwork into three piles: Not Done, Kinda Done and Done, then informs Ruby that he’s heading out to Denver.

“Oh, good luck— I hope you find that man. Henry’s a real sweetheart. And…” Ruby lowers her voice, not that there’s anybody else around to hear, “…I’m glad you and Cady are doing better.”

“Me too, Ruby,” Branch grins, and then he heads out. Grabs some water, a couple sports drinks, and some snacks for the road— all Cady’s favourites, of course. Stops off home to grab his own stuff: some spare clothes, his toothbrush, a comb. He’s got some condoms in his wallet, just in case. Anything else, he can just buy. And then he’s off to pick up the lady of the hour.

It’s about five and a half hours to Denver if Branch drives fast and sticks to the highway. So that’s what he does.

Cady controls the radio, they make small talk and catch up the last couple weeks’ events. Mostly, though, Branch thinks about how pretty Cady looks when she’s happy, and how happy he’s gonna make her once Ridges is dealt with and Henry’s free. Maybe he’ll take a leaf out of Moretti’s book and go to Jackson for a romantic weekend. Major difference being Branch isn’t dumb enough to get caught by whatever weird-ass cultists are still hanging out on the edges of Absaroka County. 

It’s early evening by the time they get to Denver. They book into a motel for the night, separate rooms, and go eat at the shitty diner down the road for dinner. Branch gets the most mediocre burger of his life. Cady gets a sad-looking grilled cheese.

It's dark when they get to the bar: some shitty place on the outskirts that’s got some kinda theme, though God knows what the theme’s supposed to be. It’s not _quite_ alternative, and it’s not _quite_ a biker place, though there are a bunch of people who could slot nicely into either category hanging around.

The bar is crowded, even the stairs. Bad music thumping so loud Branch can barely hear himself think. It takes a while, but he and Cady make it down the stairs to the main room. 

“So, this is where Henry found the guy who killed your mom?” Branch asks. He’d imagined something… deserted. Seedy. This place is weirdly lively. 

“Yeah, Miller Beck,” Cady confirms. “So, here’s the plan: we have to try and prove a connection between him and Darius. Prove that maybe Darius hired Miller Beck and then killed him to cover his tracks.”

“Where’d you wanna start?” Branch asks. Lot of people here. Lot of ground to cover. Camera footage would be a good start, but… well. Would probably need a court order for that and there’s no easy way of getting one in the current circumstances. 

Cady surveys the room with her sharp eyes. 

“Management,” she says, and then she’s stepping forward to question the guy behind the bar. “Hey, you know this guy?”

“Yeah, Miller Beck, right?” The manager says, looking at the photo. “But, uh, isn’t he dead?”

“He is,” Cady confirms. “Did he come in here a lot?”

“Yeah,” is the answer. “Miller and his pals would come through, mostly try to score junk in the men’s room. I’ll show you.” 

The manage leads them to a wall plastered with photos in a side hallway. 

“We’ve got a lot of our old regulars up here,” he explains. He takes a photo off the wall, shows it to Cady. “Ah, here he is!” 

“Who’s that guy with him?”

“That’s Tug Renton, he’s dead too. Not the greatest life expectancy with these guys.”

Branch pulls out his photo of Darius. 

“You ever see this guy with Miller Beck?” he asks. This time the answer is much less helpful. 

“Uh, I don’t know. Uh, it’s been a while now and I sort of, uh, donated of my memory when I was in my twenties,” the manager says, with a nervous chuckle. 

“Can I get your info, and anybody else who may have known Miller Beck?” Cady asks. 

“No, actually— that’s, that’s fine, yeah,” the manager says. “Just follow me.” 

“Okay,” Cady says. She shoots Branch a worried look before she starts walking. 

Branch takes a moment to peruse the wall, just in case. Maybe Darius is in the background or something…

No dice. He sighs, moves back to the main room. Doesn’t see Cady immediately, and that’s when a girl dressed like a cheap pinup model accosts him. 

“Hey, you, uh, looking for that guy?” she asks, gesturing at the photo in Branch’s hand. 

“Yeah, you know him?”

“Well, I’ll only tell you on one condition,” the girl says, batting her heavily-mascara’d eyes at him. 

“What’s that?”

“You let me take your photo,” she says, with a grin. “I’ve never seen a real cowboy before.”

Branch fights the urge to roll his eyes. City folk are really something else. Wyoming border is less than an hour away, and it isn’t like Colorado is cowboy-free. Hell, the girl is probably mocking him. 

He doesn’t bother smiling, just a barely-there nod of his head. 

She smiles, takes a photo with the flash, and then Branch demands his payment.

“So, you know him?”

“Nope,” the girl smirks. She blows him a kiss and flounces off, and if Branch were any less of a gentleman, he’d grab her shoulder and strike her straight in the face. Except he is a gentleman, so he doesn’t, just glares after her a moment. Then he returns to work. Can’t waste any more time. 

Branch asks near enough everybody in the bar, the answer’s always the same: “no”, “sorry”, or an awkward head shake. He tries his luck on the stairs. More of the same. Then he goes outside, to the wannabe gangsters and bikers loitering outside. They either walk off before he reaches them, or don’t even bother looking. 

“You seen this guy?” he asks one man with a flag bandanna. 

“I smell bacon!” is the answer, drawn out in what the man probably thinks is a threatening tone, but is actually just annoying. 

Branch rolls his eyes, starts trudging back to the car. He’ll wait for Cady there. 

His phone chimes. 

A Snapchat. Doesn’t get many of those.

Branch opens it without thinking. 

_Hey there, Cowboy_ is the message. And the photo is the one that unhelpful bitch in the bar took, Branch staring at the camera, looking like shit, and behind him…

David Ridges. 

Branch nearly drops his phone, and the message vanishes. 

“No… no…” Branch mutters. Ridges was right there? Within reaching distance? He’s had dreams about this, nightmares.

Branch sprints back to the bar, shoving his way down the stairs so fast he nearly slips, definitely knocks at least two asshats over. 

Branch grabs the first person he sees, who he recalls seeing in the bar at the same time as the woman. Some white guy. 

“You seen a Native guy with long hair?” Branch demands, and the man shrugs him off angrily. 

“Get off of me!” 

Branch can’t breathe. Ridges was here. He was right here. He— he needs— Ridges can’t just vanish, not again!

“Has anyone seen an Indian with long hair?!” Branch bellows, at the top of his lungs, so loud it cuts across the music. Nobody speaks up. 

“Hey, hey!” Cady appears out of nowhere, grabbing Branch’s hands, stroking frantically. “What’s happening? Did you see Darius?”

“No,” Branch replies, looking wildly around the bar. “David Ridges, he was here!” 

Cady looks confused, so Branch continues, gesticulating wildly as he tries to explain. 

“This girl, she— she took my picture, sent it to my phone!” Cady doesn’t seem to get it, and something in Branch snaps. “He was standing right behind me!”

“Okay,” Cady says, looking afraid. She doesn’t need to be, Branch is gonna protect her from Ridges. Her voice cracks as she continues: “can I see the picture?”

Branch bites his lip, scans the bar again. No Ridges. He shakes his head. 

“It disappeared,” he says. 

“Oh,” Cady replies. She’s quiet for a moment, and then she speaks, clutching Branch’s hand like she’s afraid he’ll disappear. “Let’s… I need some fresh air.”

Branch nods. It’s hot down here. Stuffy. Music’s making his head pound. 

They head upstairs. Cady gets in the truck, starts the AC. Branch pauses a moment, checks their surroundings again. No Ridges, but it’s hard to tell in the dark. He does a quick patrol of the surrounding area, just to be sure. 

“You find David Ridges?” Cady asks, quietly, when Branch climbs in the passenger. 

“No,” Branch answers, frustration tight in his belly. Ridges had been so close… if Branch had only turned around… damn it. “Couldn’t find the girl, either.”

“The girl who sent you the disappearing picture?” Cady asks, calmly. Maybe a little too calmly, a little too lawyerly. Her face is hard to read. Shock, disappointment, sadness… whatever it is, it makes her gaze weigh heavy on his skin.

“Yeah,” Branch mutters, turning away. “It’s, uh, one of those apps that lets you send texts and photos that erase themselves. Called ‘snapchat’ or something.” 

Branch doesn’t even _use_ Snapchat. Why does he even have it on his phone? How’d Ridges get his user ID? Can you track someone down with their real name?

Cady stays quiet. She looks away, and Branch _recognises_ that expression on her face, her defensive body language. 

She thinks he’s crazy. 

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Branch asks, a dry and bitter chuckle forcing its way up his throat. 

Cady sighs, and when she speaks, her voice trembles oh-so-slightly.

“I hope that you can see why it might be a little difficult for me to believe that a dead man photo-bombed you in a self-erasing picture on an app _you don't have_.” 

Branch grits his teeth. For God’s sake. 

“So, then, I’m hallucinating?” Branch asks. It's a rhetorical question, but Cady answers it literally.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Cady replies, softly, holding up her wrist, and Branch’s stomach twists painfully with guilt. He can’t think of anything to say to that. She acted like she accepted his apology, didn’t she? Damn it…

Cady continues, before Branch can form a sentence, and this time she sounds like she’s on the verge of tears: “Branch, you see David Ridges _everywhere_. This is the bar where the guy who murdered my mother used to hang out. We’re supposed to be figuring out who else could’ve been involved.”

Branch cuts in before she can continue the guilt trip. 

“Your mother’s _dead_ , Cady,” he says. It’s harsh, but she needs to hear it. All this chasing dead men, when finding Ridges will exonerate Henry? She’s obsessed. He continues, hoping she’ll hear him, that she’ll understand. “I’m still alive.” 

Cady looks at him, her green eyes open wide, for a very long moment. 

“Okay,” she says, and then she reaches into the backseat and takes her bag. “Well, I hope you find what you’re looking for.” 

Then Cady is out of the truck, striding away to God-knows-where. 

Branch sighs, watching her stride away. Why are women so over-emotional?

He waits a while. She’ll come back. She always does. 

Two minutes, then ten, then twenty. 

Cady doesn’t return. 

Okay, so maybe she’s _really_ mad. It’s not like Branch said anything wrong, but it must’ve been hard to hear. He just needs to give her some time.

Branch heads down to the bar, orders the best whiskey in the house (turns out to be over-priced _crap_ ). Maybe if he stays here for a while, Ridges will come back to taunt him. 

This time, Branch is gonna be ready. 


	10. 1 - 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this loop is finally almost over.... i'm almost at the point of complete divergence... almost... 
> 
> once we finish this round of s3 we'll be going back to our irregularly scheduled monthly-ish chapter updates. i'm on vacation right now, so i ended up getting a bunch of chapters done in record time... so now we're here.

When Branch gets back to Absaroka, there’s a couple things he needs to take care of. David Ridges isn’t gonna stop, so Branch has to stop him first. And though Tucker Baggett’s a damn fine lawyer and Dad’s never gonna let anything bad happen to Branch, Branch still needs to cover his tracks, tie up some loose ends. 

He goes to Travis, offers him a little over a hundred thousand if he changes his story, lies about whatever he told Moretti. Travis refuses, coward that he is, so Branch tells him that he’d better pray she doesn’t spill the beans, that if Branch goes down, Travis is going down too, with no fancy lawyers or favourable judges. Then he heads home, sets up a couple cameras, just in case Ridges appears there, just to cover any blind spots. 

Branch’s cell keeps ringing. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to hear Cady scolding him, or Walt telling him everything is in his head, or Moretti’s back-stabby bitchiness. They think he’s crazy, too stupid to recognise the caller ID, but he’s not. 

He’s fine. He’s gonna finish this. 

Branch heads out to the wilderness, triple-checks the cameras he set up near the caves. Then, out of desperation, he explores a couple caves himself. Maybe they missed a couple exits...

He finds nothing. 

Branch goes home, grabs a couple protein bars, a couple cans of Red Bull for good measure. No time to waste napping. He ignores his phone. 

Branch is heading out to the Rez, with a half-formed idea to start hounding Poteet again, when someone new calls. Someone with no caller ID. Probably not someone from the office, then. He picks up.

“The Crazy Dogs lead me to you,” Ridges croons down the line. 

“Ridges,” Branch hisses. 

“You’ve been chasing ghosts. The only way you can catch a ghost is to stop running. Stop and look all around you.”

Branch slams on the brakes, skids to a halt halfway across one of the old bridges near the Rez. He looks right: nothing. Left: another bridge. And on it, Ridges, standing next to a beat-up car with a phone pressed to his ear. 

Ridges falls silent. Watches. 

The feeling of deja-vu is stronger than ever before. Branch feels sicker than ever before, his stomach heavy as nausea rises in his throat. He presses on the gas, takes the dirt road that leads to the other bridge. 

Ridges is still there when Branch pulls up. Just… standing near the closed passenger door. Like he hasn’t got a care in the world. 

Branch pulls his handgun out of his belt holster, aims at Ridges. 

“Ridges, get your hands up!” Branch yells, so loud his throat starts feeling sore. 

Ridges doesn’t. He starts walking toward Branch, his long hair fluttering in the wind. Calmly, leisurely, like they’re discussing the goddamn weather. 

“You can’t shoot me,” Ridges states, like it’s a fact. “I’ve counted coup on you three times. I’ve already taken all of your power.” 

Bullshit, Branch thinks, but there’s a little twinge of worry in the back of his mind. He’s exhausted, eyes trying to blur everything together, but at this range it doesn’t matter.

“Stay where you are!” Branch orders. 

“First time, I touched you with a feather,” Ridges continues, still so calm, so tranquil, so much like the dream. “And I took your courage.” 

That’s bullshit, ‘cause Branch is right here and he’s brave as hell and he knows it, and… his hands are shaking. But that’s just because he’s tired. That’s all. 

“The second time, I went inside your dreams and I took your peace,” David continues, and… and he’s talking about the hospital. When he was Cady. And… and since then, Branch hasn’t been sleeping all that well, sure, but that’s normal for people who’ve been shot, isn’t it? 

Branch strides closer, the worry slowly coagulating into a deep pit of anxiety in his stomach. Ridges has stopped walking, his level gaze relentless. 

“The third time,” Ridges continues, “I took a picture of you. Your soul is now mine.”

It’s not true. The girl took the picture, not Ridges. 

But… that’s when things really started going bad, isn’t it? When Cady started getting mad. And now Walt keeps blowing up his phone, like he knows everything. 

Despite himself, Branch’s heart is racing, his fingers half-numb. He swallows, aiming his gun at David Ridge’s awful, smirky face. 

“One more step and I shoot,” Branch says, and his voice trembles, just like his fingers. 

“You can’t even pull the trigger,” Ridges replies, simply. “The next time I see you, I will take your life.”

Branch's heart stops for a second.

 _No._

No, that can’t happen. 

Branch freezes for a moment, dread overwhelming him. The peyote dream. The nightmare, all over again. He tries to squeeze the trigger, but his fingers are weak and clumsy and that’s when Ridges sprints, away from Branch, over the railings, into the river. 

Branch manages to shoot once, missing Ridges entirely. He sprints to the railing, realises that’s the _upstream_ direction, and turns back to the downstream. He spots Ridges easily, shoots once, twice, again and again until his magazine is empty, and misses each time, yelling in frustration and fear. 

Ridges waves, chants something mocking in Cheyenne, and vanishes into the murky depths of the river. 

Branch stares at the spot Ridges vanished from. He doesn’t reappear. 

He… he couldn’t shoot. Just like Ridges had said. 

Branch tries to catch his breath. He can’t. 

Ridges is really gonna kill him. 

* * *

Branch sprints into the Department building, taking the stairs three at a time. Didn’t manage to catch Ridges by following the river, but he still has the car as proof so it’s fine.

“Walt!” he screams. “ _Walt_!”

Branch bursts through the door, to see Ferg picking shit up off the floor, Moretti lounging in her chair, looking shocked. 

“Where’s Walt?!” Branch demands. He doesn’t wait for an answer, heads to Walt’s office. “Walt?” 

Walt opens the door just as Branch rounds the corner. Relief floods Branch. Finally, he might be okay. Maybe Walt will listen, this time. Branch has evidence, so why shouldn’t he?

“Walt, I found Ridges,” he explains, grabbing the Sheriff by the shoulders. He can barely keep the smile off his “He’s alive, he called my phone.” 

Walt ushers him out into the main office, and Branch totally gets it. He’s armed, raving like a lunatic. Gotta work a little for the trust, he gets that, respects that. Branch takes a few steps back, slams his empty gun onto his empty desk, starts trying to explain. 

“He was on Pike’s Bridge, I tried to bring him in but he jumped in the river,” Branch says, and he heads back to the office, past Ruby who’s staring at him in silence. He goes to the big ammo cabinet, fishes out a couple boxes of his bullets, he’ll do the paperwork later. “I followed him on the road as long as I could, but the river, you know, it turns away from the road and into the woods—“

“Just stop, Branch,” Walt interrupts. 

“—so I came here for ammunition and backup,” Branch continues, because he just needs to explain and then Walt will help and then Ridges won’t kill him. He strides back into the main office, where Walt stands with Ferg, next to Branch’s empty desk. “I figured Ferg and me could lock down one side of the river bank.” 

“Vic could… cover the other…” Branch continues, and he can’t quite bring himself to make direct eye contact with Walt, who’s got a face like thunder, and he’s standing next to Branch’s empty desk. Why's it empty?

“Branch, we need to talk about what you did to Sam Poteet,” Walt says, evenly. 

That’s why his desk is empty. 

Branch turns to glare at Moretti, who’s still sitting at her perfectly-ordered desk, trying to look like anything other than the evil, two-faced _bitch_ she is. 

“You just couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you?” Branch snarls. 

“Don’t you _dare_ put this one on me,” Moretti snaps, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “I’m not the one who decided to go _bat-shit crazy_.”

Crazy? He’ll show her crazy. 

Branch strides forward, before anybody else can move and grabs Moretti by the throat, shoving her up against the window with all his strength, hoping she’ll fall through, and the stupid bitch _doesn’t_ and she’s _screaming_ and Branch is screaming right back and then there are strong arms trying to yank him back and Moretti’s kicking and struggling and _not going through the **goddamn** window._

“Hey!” Walt bellows, next to Branch’s ear, dragging him back. “Get off her! Get _off_ her!” 

Branch struggles, of course. He kicks and bites and tries to elbow Walt in all the right places, but Branch hasn’t eaten or slept properly in a while, so even though he’s _usually_ stronger and fitter, Walt might as well be made of titanium. 

“Get the key, Ferg!” 

Walt sweeps Branch’s feet from under him, straight up _tosses_ him into the cell like a ragdoll. Branch barely manages to protect his head from the brick wall, bounces back as quick as he can, tries to fight against Walt locking the damned door, with both Walt and Ferg’s impressive weight holding it shut. 

They lock the door, despite Branch’s best efforts, and Branch has to take a second to catch his breath. 

“Ridges,” he tries again. “He’s alive.”

Walt looks at him for a long moment. Then he walks away. Damn it. Ferg’s already retreated to the office.

Branch closes his eyes. 

Damn it.

* * *

Branch ends up sitting on the floor, back against the door. He can't get comfortable on the bed, feels too much like a criminal, and can't feel safe if he isn't able to see the doors. Ferg's a fool and would probably hold the door open for Ridges if he showed up. At least the mesh on the lower half of the walls means he doesn’t have to look at his colleagues. 

Moretti gets quickly ushered by Walt into his office, either for an adrenaline fuelled blowjob or so she can further poison Walt against Branch. Ferg makes a big show of sweeping and tidying, and not sitting at his desk or moving any of his items. Ruby retreats to her desk, out of earshot, but Branch keeps catching faint crying sounds at the edge of his hearing. 

Eventually, Moretti reappears. Branch knows she reappears because Ferg stops playing with the broken blinds and he can hear them both muttering to each other. Probably about Branch himself.

“You don’t have to whisper,” Branch says, loudly, and they stop for a moment. 

“Some of us are trying to work,” Moretti replies, snidely. Branch turns his head, glares at her, standing near her desk, not looking at him. 

Branch rises, takes a deep breath. Maybe there’s a way he can still win against her. 

“I understand why you had to tell Walt,” he says. “I want you to know there are no hard feelings.”

Moretti laughs. It is not a nice laugh. 

“Speak for yourself,” she says, and she sits at her desk. Branch tries again. He has evidence, if someone— anyone— would just _listen_ to him for _one second_ …

“Look, Vic, Ridges is still out there. His car is on the bridge. If you would just go out there, please…” 

Moretti snaps, slamming the desk as she stands, striding toward the cell. 

“Look, I don’t know what your deal is, but I know that I am not driving all the way out to Pike’s Bridge just to find out that the car has disappeared like every other piece of evidence about Ridges!”

Branch digs in his pocket, draws the keys out. He jingles them loudly. 

“Car’s still there,” he says. “I took his keys out of the ignition. Now, you can stand there and just say that I’m crazy, but later you’ll have to explain to Walt how you could’ve caught the guy who shot me but you just… let him go.”

Even Ferg starts to look a little convinced at that last part. Moretti is silent. Branch waits. One of them is gonna break. 

“I can go check it out,” Ferg says, after a moment. He approaches Branch, hand out, and that’s when Moretti pipes up. 

“No, I’ll go,” she says. She looks Branch dead in the eye. “Anything to get me out of here.”

Moretti approaches Branch warily. He holds the keys out for her, and grabs her fingers as she takes them. 

“Let me out and I’ll go with you,” he whispers. “We can track him down together.”

“Not a chance,” she hisses, shaking the keys and her hand loose from his grasp. She doesn’t look back at him as she leaves, the door swinging shut behind her. 

* * *

“Longmire!” Dad’s voice echoes through the building, then he appears, having entered through the private exit in Walt’s office. “Longmire!”

Branch has never been so happy to see Dad. He’s less happy when he realises Dad’s alone— on the phone, he said he’d take care of the legal stuff, which Branch had assumed meant Baggett. 

“Um, he’s not here right now,” Ferg replies, jumping to his feet in a hurry. He physically plants himself between Dad and Branch. “He’ll be here soon.”

“Dad, I thought you were bringing a lawyer,” Branch says. 

“I don’t have time to waste,” Dad replies, and he turns his attention to Ferg. “Open that cell. Release my son.”

“I can’t do that,” Ferg says, trying to look tough. Bless his heart. “Not until Walt gives the okay.”

Dad is silent for a moment, regarding Ferg with cold eyes. His name drops to Ferg’s name badge. 

“Ferguson,” he says, each syllable cold and icy. Branch settles back to watch this display of intimidation. “Does your dad still own that roofing business? Because I swear to you, if you don’t open that cell, your father will never get another construction job in this state again.”

“You can’t do that,” Ferg replies, though he doesn’t sound certain. 

“Try me,” Dad replies, all but hissing with malice. 

Ferg falls quiet. Branch hears him swallow. 

Come on, Branch silently wills him on. Ferg knows there’s nothing they can hold Branch on. No arrest was made, no charges filed, and he’s pretty sure Walt left bruises. 

One moment, then two.

Ferg’s resolve folds like a house of cards. His hands are clammy, trembling as he opens the cell door. 

Dad regards Ferg with cold eyes as they pass, but doesn’t say anything more.

“Enjoy the desk,” Branch tells Ferg, before the door shuts behind them.

* * *

Dad’s weirdly nice on the way home. Pats Branch’s shoulder and tells him how much he loves him and how great of a son he is. Listens intently when Branch explains the lead-up to his incarceration— though he leaves out a couple details regarding Moretti’s _exact_ accusations. Dad nods, tells him not to worry, he’ll take care of everything, and Branch feels a little better. He keeps an eye on the mirrors, the windows, in case Ridges appears, but he doesn’t and then they’re pulling into Dad’s drive.

“You know, I got a dry-aged T-bone for dinner tonight,” Dad says, conversationally, as they climb out of the car. “But it looks like we oughta put it on that eye of yours.” 

Any other day, Branch might’ve laughed. Today, he can’t help but worry, kept watching the roads in case Ridges appeared behind them.

“I’m fine,” Branch mutters. Then, just as Dad passes the fountain: “Hey, dad?”

“Yeah?”

“I need to borrow the car.”

Dad frowns, turning back, hands in pockets. Looks leisurely, but that’s when Dad’s at his most dangerous. 

“Why?” Dad presses. 

“Got a job to finish.”

“No, you don’t,” Dad replies. 

There’s a sinking feeling in Branch’s stomach. 

“You don’t believe me either.”

Dad sighs. 

“Son, don’t take this the wrong way, but frankly I don’t care. The way I see it, there are two possibilities. Either you’re imagining all this, in which case your judgement can’t be trusted, or this David Ridges is still alive and trying to kill you. In either case, I can’t allow my only son to put himself back in harm’s way again. Now, come in. After you’ve had a shower and some sleep, we’ll work this out together.”

It’s not the response Branch wanted. But it’s better than he expected. Dad’s matter-of-factness about the situation almost makes him feel better. And with the cameras and the domestic staff, Ridges probably can’t get at him here. 

But it’s a temporary solution. 

“Come on,” Dad says, walking toward the entrance. 

There’s not much Branch can do except follow Dad into the house.

Time passes excruciatingly slowly.

Branch lounges around for a while. Too antsy to sit down and watch a movie, like Dad suggested. Tries to read a couple books, settle down with some Netflix, but he can’t concentrate knowing Ridges is out there, knowing he was right and that he’s actually _in danger_ now. 

Branch paces and he wanders and eventually he ends up in front of the drinks fridge, trying to decide what to drink. Perrier? Heineken?

He grabs a Sprite, ‘cause it’s the easiest to reach and he doesn’t feel like drinking anything harder with a stalker-murderer on the loose. Lets the fridge door close, and that’s when Dad speaks. He’s leaning in the doorway, looking at Branch.

“You hungry? I can fix you a sandwich.” 

Branch pulls the tab on the can, takes a long sip.

“No thanks,” he says. Honestly, it’s weird that Dad would even offer. He’s never been very… fatherly. Not like other kids seemed to have, like what the movies and TV always showed. Branch can’t help but laugh at that. Dad’s the least caring person Branch has ever known— and of course Branch loves him, but it’s just... it kind of feels like Dad’s an actor trying to play a role and it’s awkward.

“What?” Dad asks, a frown forming on his face.

“Seems weird, you trying to take care of me,” Branch tries to explain. It’s not something he’s really thought about before, but now he _is_ thinking about it, it's... it's _bizarre_. “I mean, you never even held my hand as a kid when we crossed the street.” 

Something he sees in movies, in other parents all the time. 

“No,” Dad says, agreeing softly. “No, I didn’t.” 

Dad is quiet for a moment, then meets Branch’s eyes with a level gaze. 

“I always walked ahead of you,” he says. “Laid out a path for you to follow. I wasn’t gonna coddle you, and I trusted that you were smart enough to see the dangers around you and make your own choices.”

It makes sense. As an adult, Branch can kinda understand the sentiment. As a kid, though, it had felt… cold. He remembers crying about it a couple times, when he was too young to understand that men _shouldn't_ cry.

Would it have killed Dad to give him a kind word once in a while? A hug?

“Yeah, well…” Branch mutters, bitterly. “You were always there to tell me when I made the wrong ones.” 

Enough said. Branch walks past Dad, heads to his old room.

It’s exactly as it was last time he stayed here: all his childhood shit is in a box in his den in his _actual_ house, the bedroom here essentially a guest room. Which Branch is, really. He sits on the bed, exhausted but not ready to turn in yet. 

Dad appears in the doorway, not willing to let Branch have the last word in _his_ house. 

“Whether you realise it or not, I have _always_ looked out for you,” Dad says. 

Branch does not answer. He knows better than to argue. 

“I just hope, one day, you can tell me what it is that’s tearing you up inside,” Dad adds, and he starts closing the double doors of the room. “Night, son.”

Fine, Branch thinks, and then he hears it: the lock in the door turning, the jingle of keys as Dad puts them in his pocket, the way he always did when Branch misbehaved as a kid. 

Not fine, he thinks, cold rage sitting heavy in his stomach. 

Oh, he _could_ stay locked in here all night. There’s a bathroom, so he has easy access to a toilet and clean water. There are spare clothes in the dressers, and the bed is comfortable. If he were here of his own free will, he’d be pretty happy with the setup. But he shouldn’t be _forced_ to stay. He shouldn’t be treated like a stupid child, just ‘cause he _looks_ a little crazy right now. That’s not okay. And he's not gonna stand for it.

It doesn’t take long to break out. He sets off the security alarm and hides until Dad comes investigating, unlocking the door. Then he sneaks out of the window in Dad’s office while Dad is distracted by Branch’s ‘disappearance’. He doesn’t take the keys to Dad’s car because it’s too much of a risk getting caught again, but it’s okay. He doesn’t need it. 

He knows exactly where to get a ride.

* * *

Travis is on the clock at his shitty gas station job when Branch gets there, just like Branch knew he would be. Travis keeps bitching and whining about the hours and the pay whenever they hang out. 

Branch doesn’t even _have_ to do any threatening. Travis pretty much shits himself as soon as he sees Branch walking in with his rifle. 

“Hey— hey, bud, wha— what’re you doin’ here?” Travis stammers. 

“Just tying up some loose ends,” Branch tells him. “I got some time on my hands.”

“Okay,” Travis whispers, raising his hands in terror like this is some kind of stick-up. Works for Branch. He can play along. 

“I warned you what would happen if Walt found out about Sam Poteet,” Branch says, and he slowly aims his unloaded hunting rifle at Travis, who looks about ready to piss himself. 

“Look, I— I’m sorry, I had to tell Walt,” Travis stammers. “I-I-I can’t t-take that b-back. Th-think about this, B-Branch… If I turn up m-murdered, you’re the first person Walt’s gonna suspect.”

“I don’t care what Walt thinks anymore,” Branch replies, and Travis actually starts crying. 

“P-please don’t kill me, Branch…”

“It’s not as much fun when the barrel’s pointed at you, is it?” Branch asks. “Don’t worry, Travis. I’m not gonna waste a shell on you. But you’re gonna have to do something to make this all up to me.”

“What?”

“Give me the keys to your car.”

“Okay,” Travis empties his pockets quickly, depositing a couple bills, some gum, and the car keys on the counter. 

Branch carefully only takes the keys. He’s a nice guy. Travis is poor as shit, don’t need Branch taking his money away. He does, however, take the security radio with him. Definitely gonna need _that_.

Branch drives a couple miles down the road, then settles in to listen to the Sheriff's Office channel. Takes about fifteen minutes before he hears what he needs, which is longer than he expected, considering it was a five-minute drive to get here— maybe Travis _did_ have to change his pants?

Walt will go to a medicine woman near Horse Creek, to hunt Ridges. Apparently Nighthorse fed him the information. As for the others, Walt is convinced Branch is going after Moretti. Ferg and Moretti will stay at the station, barricade themselves in, prepare for a violent arrest.

Honestly, if it weren’t so hurtful, Branch would be kind of flattered to hear how afraid the others are of him. 

It’s nice not to be underestimated for once. 


	11. 1 - 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we are... the end of the beginning... next chapter should be a lot of fun!

  
Branch speeds to the creek as fast as Travis’ shitty car will carry him. It’s slow and sluggish, barely responding to him. By the time he passes Durant, it’s well past sunrise. 

And then the engine fails. Exactly what Branch needed. 

“No,” he grits his teeth in frustration. Damn it! He doesn’t have time for this, can’t call for help under the circumstances. 

He kicks the car. 

“No! No!” Branch yells, kicking again and again, leaving dents in the door of Travis’ useless hunk of junk. He hits it again and again and again until he’s tired and out of breath. He doesn’t feel better. 

This isn’t fair! He’s gonna die, and Ridges is gonna get away with it and it’s all Walt and Moretti’s fault!

There’s no choice, he decides, when his throat hurts from screaming so hard and his knuckles feel numb and swollen. He’s got to go on foot. Maybe he’ll be too late, maybe Walt will already be dead or he’ll let Ridges off easy or something. Branch needs to try, though. He’s not going to just sit back and let some crazy time-traveller kill him. 

Branch gives Travis’ piece of shit junker another savage kick, then goes on his way, his rifle slung over his shoulder. He doesn’t bother heading down to the creek, instead taking the road back to town, intending to head home. Regroup, replan. 

Ridges will find him somehow and he’ll be ready. 

Branch gets about a mile down the road when Walt pulls up in his battered Bronco. 

Walt gets out of the driver’s seat, his face splattered in blood, and doesn’t say anything. Kind of weird, since Branch is holding a loaded rifle. He looks pained, shuffles to the trunk and opens it. 

David Ridges lies there, dead. Painted white, wearing jeans and his ceremonial garb, dark red oozing from bullet wounds in his torso. Just like in the dream. 

Something doesn’t feel right, though. Branch can’t help but keep glancing back at the body when he climbs into the passenger. Branch keeps expecting to see Ridges sitting up, knife in his hand, ready to strike, but he doesn’t. He just continues to lie there, in the back, as though he’s really dead. There’s white paint all across the inside of the car, familiar handprints that make Branch feel sick. 

Walt drives them to the hospital with nary a word. Branch helps him transport Ridges into the morgue. 

Walt signs the paperwork, and Branch watches as Ridges is wheeled away. There’s a weight lifted off his shoulders, but it feels weird. It feels almost like they aren’t his shoulders any more. He doesn’t feel like himself. But he does feel better. Ridges is dead, so he’s safe. And that means Branch’s problems are no longer weird supernatural bullshit, but regular human bullshit, and he’s pretty good at dealing with the latter. 

Walt gives Branch a wary glance, and Branch can feel the disappointment in his eyes. It almost feels bad. 

They silently head. back to Durant, to the station. Branch follows Walt, who seems confused. Halfway across the empty Main Street, Walt stops, faces Branch. 

“Where’re you going?”

Branch stops. Looks at him, confused. He’s gotta deal with the fallout of everything that’s happened. Gotta write his Poteet report and apologise to Moretti and whatever. 

“Inside,” Branch replies. He makes sure his rifle is pointed at the ground, safety on. Don’t want no accidents. Not now everything is okay again. 

Walt shakes his head, level as ever. He’s got that serious look in his eye, the one that tells Branch he screwed up bad. 

“No, you’re not,” he says. 

Branch thinks about that. Okay, now he’s not being chased by an angry ghost, he can kind of understand that. His behaviour’s been a little unhinged. He could’ve really hurt someone. He needs to make up for it. 

“What do I got to do to earn my way back in?” Branch asks. 

Walt hesitates.

“I don’t know,” he says. Then he gives Branch a sad, concerned little smile, and heads on in. 

Branch stares at the door as it closes. It feels final, somehow. 

He doesn’t know what to do. 

* * *

Ferg stops by Branch’s place a few hours later with a box and a couple bags.   
  
“What’re you doing here?” Branch asks, like it’s not obvious. 

“Walt wanted me to… bring over your stuff,” Ferg says, looking slightly terrified. Branch can’t blame him. Guess this means he’s been well and truly fired. 

Last time Branch had been in the office, his desk had been empty, and Ferg had been bustling around over there. Which, given the fact there’s now a senior role that needs filling, probably means Branch was screwed the moment Moretti sent in that letter, and… 

“You cleaned out my desk to make room for your stuff,” Branch says. 

Ferg, tries to deny it, stammering, looking about ready to crap himself. And, despite how Branch was feeling twelve hours ago, Ferg’s fear just makes him ashamed. The hell was wrong with him? Did Ridges actually steal his soul for a while there, or was he just on the verge of a psychotic break brought on by stress and a lack of sleep?

“No, I— That’s—“

“It’s okay, Ferg,” Branch interrupts. “You deserve it.”

Branch takes his stuff, dumps it on a chair. 

“It’s temporary, right?” Ferg says, sounding equal parts hysterical and hopeful. Branch can’t help but laugh at that. Wishful thinking. 

“Right,” he agrees, mostly to be nice. Hasn’t been that way for a long while now. 

The next couple hours tick away slowly. Branch showers and tries (fails) to nap. He makes himself a peanut butter sandwich ‘cause the groceries in his fridge expired while he was having his mental breakdown. He thinks, but mostly he regrets. 

How could he have been such an ass to Cady? There’s no way he can make up for that, is there? And now he’s lost his job… okay, that’s not a big problem, he’s got enough money to keep him going a fair while without work. But Branch worked the Sheriff’s Department ‘cause he liked it there. And now he’s been unofficially fired and it’s… honestly, it’s totally fair. 

He deserves it. Deserves all of this, and yet he doesn’t. Wasn’t his fault Ridges was a sociopath, but… damn it. He screwed up so bad. 

The thoughts whirl around and around Branch’s head, and every problem he created the last couple months seems too huge, too daunting, to even start thinking about solving. 

Eventually, Branch gets up from his couch, grabs his jacket, and goes to do something stupid: break into the morgue. 

Branch just needs to be completely sure that Ridges is really gone for good. So he sidles around the back, jiggles the door with the bad lock just-so, and pads in. It’s easy to find Ridges, lying next to the autopsy table, staring up at the ceiling with blank eyes. 

Branch reaches down, scrapes a little powdery white paint off Ridges’ cold skin. 

Something doesn’t make sense. 

Branch heads home, spends a couple hours wondering how all this fits together. His cameras are in the box Ferg brings over, and that gives Branch an idea— he’d installed a couple at the casino site when he and Walt had thought Nighthorse was somehow related to this Ridges mess. Wouldn’t do any harm to check those, he thinks, thought there’s an anxious knot in his stomach when he grabs the camera control rig, begins the playback. 

It’s boring as hell. Branch sits through hours of footage, pausing every now and again to check if any of the faces on the screens are somehow Ridges. He spots Poteet doing something with pipes, and a couple other Indians he vaguely recognises, but nothing else. 

Nothing else until a familiar car pulls into the site lot in the dead of night, and then Nighthorse wanders over to speak to the driver. He pauses the video.

Branch stares at the still for a long time. 

No way. It can’t be… 

Dad and Nighthorse. Just like the dream.

A sharp knocking jerks Branch out of his thoughts. He closes the console, peers through the blinds. 

Dad. 

He opens the door, reluctantly. 

“Son, you owe me an apology, an explanation, and a shotgun,” Dad says. 

“Dad—“ Branch starts, his stomach sinking, but Dad interrupts, pushing past him into the living room. 

“I’ll forgo the first two for a cup of coffee,” he says. “Heard you got suspended.”

Branch closes the door with a sigh. 

“Yeah,” he admits. It hurts, but… it’s justified, and he can’t think how to un-screw the situation. 

“You think you can beat it?”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Branch replies, following Dad to the kitchen. 

“Then don’t even try,” Dad says. “You’ll spend the rest of your career apologising and proving yourself. My advice: move on.”

“Move on to what?” Branch asks. He’s getting a little old for rodeo. 

Dad tosses a box his way, pours himself a coffee. 

“I had those printed up six years ago,” he says. “Before you decided to become a deputy.”

Business cards. A whole bunch of them, all reading the same thing in smart black and white and gold.

**CONNALLY LLC.**

**BRANCH CONNALLY**   
**VICE PRESIDENT**

“I think it’s time you joined the family business,” Dad says, sipping his coffee.

The thought turns Branch’s stomach a little. Dad can be overbearing at the best of times, and Branch doesn’t know a damn thing about construction. 

“I don’t know,” he mutters. He doesn’t particularly want to work for Dad, but at this point, does he have any choice? Would anywhere else in Absaroka take him on? Admittedly, it would solve his future money issues— he’d be easily raking in a six-figure salary. Seven hundred thousand instead of a scant seventy. 

“Look, Branch,” Dad says, surprisingly softly. “It may not have happened the way you wanted it to, but I, for one, am glad that it finally did. “I’m not gonna live forever, and I’d like to know that the business is staying in the family.”

“You want me to take over the company?” Branch asks. It’s a little surprising, given how Dad likes to berate him, tell him he’s a wimp who can’t do a damn thing right. 

“Companies,” Dad corrects him. “Eventually.” He pauses. “Of course, if you need to think about it…”

“Actually,” Branch starts, hesitantly. He strides to the living room, sits down. “I— I do have one question. I mean, if I’m gonna come work with you, am I gonna have to deal with Jacob Nighthorse?”

“What do you mean?” Dad asks, sipping again, looking like nothing’s wrong. 

“I mean, does Connally LLC do business with Nighthorse?” Branch asks, a knot in his stomach. He’s not sure what answer he wants to hear: a denial or an affirmation. 

“Not if I can help it,” Dad says. He pauses. “Why do you ask?”

Branch hesitates. He opens the console, video still paused, and spins it to show Dad. 

“‘Cause that’s your car,” he says. 

“So it is,” Dad agrees. He looks at Branch with cold eyes. “How’d you get that?”

“Surveilling Nighthorse,” Branch answers. “What were you doing out there, Dad?”

There’s a long pause. 

“I was doing what Walt Longmire couldn’t do. All he can do is ask questions, and Nighthorse lies. But I could make it clear to Nighthorse that if anything more happened to you, proof or no proof, I would put him in the ground.” 

There it is. Proof Dad actually cares about Branch, underneath all his assholish attitude. It’s the closest thing Branch is ever going to hear to ‘I’m proud of you’, the closest he’ll ever get to a hug from his old man. He’s a little choked up when he replies. 

“Thanks, Dad.”

* * *

Branch stands in his bathroom, late at night. He’s brushed his teeth, decided he hates the feeling of stubble on his face. If he’s going to work for Dad, he needs to be clean-shaven, and he’ll probably go get a haircut this weekend. 

He squirts a little foam onto his hand, smears it over the offending hair, watching his own movements in the mirror. He’s tired, feels almost like his body belongs to someone else, the white on his jaw and throat obscuring the peach of his skin, the dark blond of his hair. Reminds him a little of how Ridges’ greasepaint covered his golden skin and his black hair. 

His hands hover at his mouth for a moment, then, as though on autopilot, he squirts a more generous amount of foam, spreading it between his palms, and covers his face entirely. 

Branch looks at the mirror. 

A White Warrior looks back. 

* * *

Branch strides into Dad’s office first thing in the morning, wearing his best suit. He leans against the door with a winning smile. Dad glances up, and a grin spreads over his face.

“Listen, Larry, I’m going to have to call you back,” Dad says, and he hangs up. He rises, clearly delighted, and Branch takes that as his cue to enter. 

“Branch!”

“Hey, Dad,” Branch replies. 

“Oh, I didn’t expect you so soon,” Dad says, but he sounds genuinely happy. 

“Yeah,” Branch shrugs, trying to play it casual. He’s got something important to do. “I don’t do too well just sitting around the house.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Branch nods. It feels good. Dad’s not normally so pleased to see him. “So what d’you think of the new uniform?”

“A little overdressed, truth be told, Dad admits, though he’s still smiling. He pats Branch’s shoulder. “But I do like the attitude.”

“So, what do I do?” Branch asks. He’s got a very vague idea of what a company Vice President does: order other people around. Maybe some other stuff too. 

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know, maybe I should get caught up on what it is you do— I’m a little shaky on the details.”

“All right, we got an empty office right down the hall, I’ll have my girl get you squared away in there and bring you decks on all our current projects,” Dad says, picking up a couple manila folders, heading to the door. 

“Shouldn’t I get to know past projects, too?” Branch asks. That’s where the details on Nighthorse are going to be.

“Yeah,” Dad starts, looking a little surprised at Branch’s enthusiasm. “Yeah, good idea. How do you take your coffee?”

“Black,” Branch answers. 

“Black it is,” Dad smiles, and then he’s gone.

Branch doesn’t waste any time.

* * *

Cady throws a party to celebrate all charges against Henry being dropped. Branch knows this because one of the office ladies at Connally mentions that she’s planning going to go, just as Branch heads out to lunch with Dad.

Branch doesn’t go to the party. He doesn’t want to bring down the mood. Needs to think of a good way to apologise to Cady first. He doesn’t text his congratulations or call her either— she deserves that in person. 

Branch continues quietly snooping, gathering evidence, while playing Dad like a violin and settling into his new job. Might be President of the company soon, if Walt arrests Dad.

The thought of that makes Branch feel even more shame, though. The evidence seems pretty damning, but… well… what if there’s a good explanation? Maybe Dad wasn’t involved in Ridges’ attempted hit on Cady, successful hit on Martha. There’s a very small chance, but it’s there. 

Branch needs to give Dad a chance to explain himself. 

He’s got a heavy feeling, like overwhelming dread, the whole time he’s driving over to Dad’s place. 

It’s gonna be fine, he tells himself, but he keeps thinking about the dream. The peyote that caused all this mess. He… well, he doesn’t remember all the details, but he remembers hitting a couple targets, and then Dad sounded angry and there was a gunshot and then… the dream had ended. He doesn’t know what happens next. He’s not even sure dream-Dad actually shot him, had just assumed that was the case when he woke up with the wounds caused by Ridges in a drug-induced stupor. 

It’ll be fine. There’s no way Dad would actually hurt him. He’s a hardass, but he does actually love Branch. He’s sure of that. 

The feeling of dread continues as he pulls into the driveway, greets Dad, walks to the back of the property, where one of the domestic staff set up the shooting equipment. They make small talk a while, until Branch manages to steer the conversation the way he wants. 

“How’ve you been settling into the job in the real world?” Dad asks, between targets.

“Everybody’s been great,” Branch replies, watching Dad reload. “Just been thinking.”

Dad chuckles. 

“Not too much, I hope,” he says. 

“Just thinking, ‘why would you pay Big Pines Timber a hundred thousand dollars last year?’” Branch says, casually as he can manage. 

“Lumber,” Dad replies. “Pull.”

Branch activates the trap mechanism. A new target flies through the air with a loud ‘fwsssh’. Dad shoots. Hits. Ejects the shell. 

“Last year I discovered Big Pines is one of Jacob Nighthorse’s shell corporations,” Branch adds. Then, in case it wasn’t clear enough: “He owns it.”

Dad looks at him, slotting new cartridges into the chamber. 

“I’m sorry I brought up work,” he says. A clear deflection. “Your turn.”

Branch steps around the mechanism, Dad taking his place at the mechanism. Branch picks up a couple cartridges from the boxes, starts loading his rifle. 

“You said you do as little business with Nighthorse as possible,” Branch presses. “That seems like a lot of business. Pull.”

Dad sends a target, Branch aims and fires. Hits it nice and square. He turns back to Dad. 

“Especially when you have another lumber supplier.”

Dad looks sour. 

“You got something to ask me, just ask,” he says. 

Branch ejects his spent shells, inserts new ones, then sets his goggles down on the cartridge box. Easier to look Dad in the eye that way.

“I’m just trying to figure out the exact nature of your relationship with a man I thought was your sworn enemy,” Branch says.

Part of him hopes it’s like that beer distributor and the vet last year— some seedy affair is a million times better than murdering Cady’s mom and trying to murder Cady too. Part of him hopes it’s just money-laundering. He wouldn’t feel obligated to report that. 

“Not when it came to getting you elected Sheriff,” Dad snaps. 

“What do you mean?” Had Dad been playing that behind the scenes, too? Even though Branch had been vocal that he wanted to do it on his own?

“Well, I knew that you wouldn’t accept any campaign money coming from me,” Dad admits. “So I funnelled it through someone you wouldn’t suspect. Do I hate the Indian bastard? Yes. But he can be useful.”

“I guess that explains why you didn’t get out of your car to threaten Nighthorse in that video,” Branch says. “‘Cause you weren’t really threatening him. You’re friends. You were doing business.”

Treading down a dangerous path, here, but it’s gotta be done. Dad seems to recognise that too, ‘cause he sounds a little skittish when he speaks next. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about here, Branch,” Dad chuckles. He looks… nervous? It’s an alien expression on his face. 

Branch removes his earplugs. He has no intention of shooting anybody. He sighs. Doesn’t want to ask the question, but he has to. 

“Three years ago, you paid Big Pines Timber fifty thousand dollars,” Branch says. “What was that for?”

“Consulting service,” Dad says, cool as a damn cucumber. Branch isn’t falling for it.

“Dad, that payment happened the same week Walt’s wife died,” he says. 

Dad’s steely expression falters for a moment. Branch guessed it. He feels sick. Furious. 

“So, you paid Nighthorse, and he sent Ridges down to Denver?” Branch clarifies. 

“Nighthorse didn’t have the balls,” Dad snaps, his face twisted in familiar anger. “I paid him to borrow his soldier just the one time. No questions asked.”

There’s a pause. 

“Branch, I did it for our family, I did it for you,” Dad insists, so awfully familiar, and the sick feeling gets worse. Branch can hardly feel his fingers, the horror and fury almost overwhelming. 

How dare he?” ‘Did it for our family’? For him? 

“I wanted you to be Sheriff, and you deserved it, not that son of a bitch Longmire,” Dad continues, and— and that’s— that’s—

Cady’s mom’s murder is indirectly Branch’s own fault. 

“I wanted to be Sheriff, but not like that,” Branch hisses. He’d wanted to win fair and square, no hurting anybody, especially not Cady or Walt himself— maybe knock him down a peg, but murder? Jesus Christ. Branch draws a shaky breath. “I’m not you.”

Branch snaps his rifle back into place, the meaning clear: do not stop me. He’s failed to do the right thing so many times lately, but he’s not gonna fail this time. Dad’s going to pay for this. He’ll take him to the station, give Walt all the evidence. 

Dad looks away, slumps down on one of the boxes, facing away from Branch. 

“I am so sorry,” he says, after a moment. Words Branch never thought he’d hear. Dad continues, sounding genuinely mournful. “I failed you, Branch. This is all my fault, all of it.” 

Dad is quiet for a moment, sighing deeply, like he’s about to say something else. Branch is silent. Whatever Dad’s thinking, he wants to hear this. 

“But you see, son, I’m sixty-five years old,” Dad says, sounding like he’s about to cry. “Papa was dead at seventy. I— I—I just… I don’t have time to make another fortune. But I do have time to make another son.”

There’s a sudden noise to Branch’s left, and he turns on instinct, drawing his rifle up. 

He sees the endless blue of the sky and the clay pigeon flying through the air, and then there’s a gunshot, a split-second of agony in the back of his skull, and then he’s falling to the dusty ground, the smell of ash and blood in his nose, dull pain in his shoulder, his stomach, the wind knocked out of his lungs. Something’s pressing uncomfortably into his back. He presses a hand to his stomach: it comes away bloody. Really bloody. That hand is shaking. Not good. 

Dad's gone, nowhere to be seen. From this angle, Branch can't even see the house. 

**Author's Note:**

> I recently got into the Longmire books, and now the TV series. While I loved both, there are a lot of things in the TV series I would have liked to see play out differently, especially in the final season or two.
> 
> I've never written anything like this before, and I am not American, so please ignore any glaring mistakes!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Way Way Forward](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29119452) by [RaithnaitRouze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaithnaitRouze/pseuds/RaithnaitRouze)




End file.
